Pi^.v-ftv^SS 


V 


MR  VAUGHAFS  HEIE. 


BY  FRANK  LEE  BENEDICT, 


AUTHOR  OF 


"MY  DAUGHTER  ELINOR,"   "MISS  VAN   KORTLAND,"  "MISS  DOROTHY'S  CHARGE," 
"JOHN  WORTHINGTON'S  NAME,"  &c,  &c. 


NEW    YORK: 

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FRANK  LEE  BENEDICT'S  NOVELS. 


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Of  all  our  American  novelists,  he  is  undoubtedly  the  most  accomplished,  the  most  vivacious,  the  mos 
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PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  will  send  either  of  the  above  works  by  mail,  postage  frtfaitt,  to  an<> 
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Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1875,  bY 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


To  J.  T.  HART. 

Dear  Friend, 

I  dedicate  to  you  this  book,  written  in  Florence  during  the  past  autumn 
made  so  pleasant  to  me  by  your  companionship.  It  will  reach  you  at  the  time 
when  the  work  to  which  you  have  devoted  ten  years  approaches  completion.  The 
.rt-lovers  and  art-students  of  our  day  have  already  pronounced  their  verdict  there- 
upon, so  that  1  only  repeat  what  has  been  said  and  written  scores  of  times  when 
I  express  the  certainty  that,  once  chiseled  into  marble  perfection,  it  will  be  acknowl- 
edged, not  only  by  our  own  generation,  but  by  all  time  to  come,  that  the  sculptor  has 
equaled  the  genius  as  well  as  the  patience  of  the  old  Greek  masters. 

FRANK  LEE  BENEDICT. 

St.  Dalmas  di  Tenda,  Italy,  1S7U, 


206187 0 


MR.  VAUGHAFS  HEIR. 


CHAPTEB  I. 

LA     MALAD&YBE. 

IT  was  a  gorgeous  September  afternoon.  The 
steamboat  neared  Lausanne,  on  its  way  up  from 
Geneva  to  Villeneuve,  and  at  length  the  far- 
famed  lake  began  to  redeem  the  promise  held 
out  by  its  reputation.  Elizabeth  Crauford  sat  on 
the  deck,  talked  with  her  father,  watched  the 
people,  and  kept  to  herself  a  certain  sense  of  dis- 
appointment which  had  been  growing  from  Ge- 
neva to  Ouchy.  But  once  beyond  the  pretty 
little  watering-place,  with  gloomy  Lausanne 
frowning  on  the  height  aboverthe  whole  scene 
changed.  The  hills  towered  into  mountains ;  in 
the  far  distance  Mont  Blanc  showed  like  a  pin- 
nacle of  yellow  flame.  Here  the  real  beauty  of 
the  lake  commences,  increasing  constantly,  till, 
within  the  sight  of  Vevay  and  Clarens,  its  full 
perfection  is  reached,  deserving  to  be  raved  over 
and  to  have  poetry  written  about  it  even  in  this 
scoffing,  materialistic  age. 

The  sun  was  setting  as  they  gained  Vevay. 
Behind  stretched  a  lofty  mountain  range,  glori- 
ous with  rainbow  tints.  In  front  rose  the  mighty 
Dent-du-Midi,  with  its  eternal  crown  of  snow, 
the  Jamin  peak  and  lesser  crags  guarding  the 
head  of  the  lake  like  giant  sentinels.  Another 
landing — a  village  which  is  in  reality  a  bourg  of 
Vevay,  though  taking  a  name  from  some  pictur- 
esque ruins  near  the  water. 

"  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  to  leave 
the  boat  here,"  Mr.  Crauford  said ;  then,  with 
characteristic  vacillation,  added  immediately, 
' '  But  we  may  as  well  go  on  to  Clarens ;  La 
Maladeyre  is  nearer  there,  in  fact." 

Elizabeth  was  too  well  accustomed  to  unex- 
pected propositions  and  their  withdrawal  on  the 
part  of  her  father,  whether  in  regard  to  journeys 
or  other  matters,  to  pay  much  attention.  She 
was  gazing  up  and  down  the  lake — watching  the 
magic  light  —  taking  in  every  feature  of  the 
beautiful  panorama.  But  she  did  not  forget  to 
answer.  Mr.  Crauford  always  waited  for  a  re- 
ply to  his  suggestions.  As  a  rule,  the  response, 
whatever  it  might  be,  did  not  exactly  please 
him  ;  but  one  of  some  sort  must  be  given.  So 
now  Elizabeth  said  dutifully — 

"Yes,  papa." 

Mr.  Crauford  neither  noticed  nor  heard.  He 
leaned  over  the  railing,  and  looked  earnestly  out 


toward  the  left  bank,  close  to  which  the  boat 
ran.  He  had  not  seen  the  spot  since  he  and  his 
wife  came  here  during  their  wedding  journey. 
Mrs.  Crauford  had  been  dead  many  a  da,v,  and 
her  widowed  spouse  was  past  fifty ;  still  he  liked 
to  indulge  in  romance  of  a  lachrymose  and  un- 
comfortable nature.  He  had  determined  to  bring 
his  daughter  to  visit  the  place  in  which  he  had 
been  so  happy,  or  thought  he  had,  though  he 
and  his  bride  had  quarreled  a  good  deal  on  the 
banks  of  the  famous  Lake  Leman,  after  the  hab- 
it of  newly  married  people,  wherever  they  may 
chance  to  wander.  He  wanted  to  spend  a  month 
in  the  very  house  in  which  he  and  his  lost  an- 
gel had  dwelt,  and,  writing  to  secure  it,  found 
himself  obliged  to  pay  a  high  price  for  the  indul- 
gence of  his  fancy.  It  was  probable  that  he 
would  be  wretched,  and  would  render  his  daugh- 
ter, his  faithful  Gervais,  and  every  body  about 
him,  as  miserable  as  he  well  could. 

There  is  no  companion  more  to  be  dreaded  on 
a  journey  than  a  man  doing  romance,  unless  it 
be  one  who  means  to  write  poetry  about  the 
marvelous  scenes  ;  they  both  invariably  scold 
and  find  fault  from  morning  to  night. 

Presently  the  boat  passed  a  point  of  land  jut- 
ting out  into  the  lake,  covered  with  trees,  two 
great  weeping-willows  and  three  tall  poplars  con- 
spicuous among  them.  Mr.  Crauford  pointed 
to  the  roof  of  a  house  visible  amid  the  greenery, 
and  spoke  for  the  first  time  in  many  minutes. 

"That  is  La  Maladeyre,  my  dear." 

Elizabeth  looked  and  tried  to  feel  sentiment- 
al, and  to  fancy  her  father  and  mother  there  in 
their  youth  ;  but  the  fitting  poetic  sadness  re- 
fused to  make  itself  felt — it  never  will  when  one 
tries  to  call  it  up.  Somehow,  her  vagrant  fan- 
cy would  only  picture  her  living  parent  in  a  hid- 
eous red  and  yellow  dressing-gown,  which  he 
donned  in  the  seclusion  of  his  chamber,  and  her 
mother  taking  physic  out  of  a  large  spoon.  She 
had  enough  pleasanter  recollections  of  that  dead 
mother,  but  they  refused  to  keep  her  company 
now. 

The  Clarens  landing  v,  as  reached ;  beyond  lay 
Verney,  Terretet,  and  the  Castle  of  Chillon ;  a 
little  further  sweep  of  water,  then  the  vast  mount- 
ains closed' in  the  scene.  It  was  almost  dusk, 
but  Elizabeth  could  perceive  that  Clarens  was 
as  unlike  the  Clarens  of  Rousseau  as  could  well 
be  imagined. 


MR.  VAUGIIAX'S  HEIR. 


10 

"It  is  not  far  down,"  Mr.  Crauford  said,  as 
he  and  his  daughter  stood  comfortably  watching 
Gervais  and  Margot  struggle  with  porters  over 
the  luggage.  "We  might  walk;  but  we  can 
easily  get  a  carriage,"  he  added,  before  she 
could  agree  to  his  first  proposition. 

Gervais  learned  that  the  road  along  the  lake 
was  undergoing  repairs ;  it  would  be  wise  to 
take  another  which  wound  among  the  hills  from 
Montreux  to  Vevay.  M\  times  Mr.  Crauford 
changed  his  mind,  but  Gervais  ordered  the  coach- 
man to  go  on  to  the  tipper  road.  He  had  not 
wavered  in  his  determination,  "though  he  let 
his  master  talk,"  as  he  expressed  himself  later 
to  Margot.  It  was  a  pretty  route,  among  trees 
and  sheltered  farm-houses,  a  spick-and-span  new 
castle  standing  where  the  bosquet  de  Julie  used 
to  wave.  From  thence  a  rapid  descent  between 
the  chestnut-trees,  a  sharp  turn,  an  arch  under 
the  railway  to  traverse,  then  the  lake  road  and 
the  pretty  campagne  Mr.  Crauford  had  pointed 
out  to  his  daughter. 

The  'carriage  passed  through  the  iron  gates, 
just  within  which  stood  a  picturesque  chalet, 
rolled  on  a  short  distance,  and  drew  np  before  the 
entrance  to  the  villa.  A  square,  rather  gloomy 
house,  much  older  than  it  looked,  but  pleasant 
and  comfortable  within — though,  after  the  fash- 
ion of  Swiss  dwellings,  the  best  room  in  it  was 
taken  up  by  the  kitchen.  There  was  a  pretty 
salon,  a  library  beyond,  both  looking  toward  the 
chalet ;  on  the  other  side  of  the  hall  a  dining- 
room,  with  a  view  of  the  lake  and  the  Dent-du- 
Midi.  Above- stairs  a  sleeping-chamber  and 
dressing-room  for  Elizabeth ;  next  that  a  large 
apartment  for  her  father,  and  a  glorious  outlook 
from  the  windows. 

They  had  dined  early  at  Geneva,     Mr.  Crau- 
ford met  one  of  his  numerous  and  sudden  neu- 
ralgic headaches  at  the  house-door  (they  were 
always  lying  in  wait  for  him  in  the  most  unex- 
jilaces),  so  he  retired  at  once  to  his  cham- 
inking  himself  saddened  by  memories  of 
i  reality,  very  rros*  and  fretful,  scold- 
-  as  long  as  that  patient  adherent 
.  to  listen. 

d  from  the  house,  and  the 

lions  of  its  good-natured  mis- 

tre**-  '  •  some  tea  later,  and  went 

8   spot  which  was  to  be  her 

-ks.    In  front,  a  narrow  lawn, 

:  to  the  right 

l"ft  a  tangle  of  shrublxsrv,  a 
'ul  an  etpalier,  where  the  great 
«  pe«r»  grew  rich  and  golden,  clumps  of 
•inns,  two  vine -covered 


I-ath  to  the  back  of  the 


dWf'  I'"f  «rccnsward,  dotted 

v"  to  the  massive 

jail   agaanit  whirl,  ,he  waves  beat  and 

run  n  force  thnt  made  one  feel  as  if 

•POD  the  MMhore.    In  one  place  the  land  jut- 


ted out  in  a  point ;  the  basin  thus  formed  made 
a  harbor  for  a  sail-boat,  and  had  a  bit  of  outer 
wall  to  protect  it.  Beyond  the  landing -steps 
rose  one  of  the  grand  old  willows ;  at  the  ex- 
tremity of  the  point  towered  a  poplar,  its  trunk 
encircled  by  a  bench. 

The  moon  was  coming  up,  tinging  the  snow- 
crown  of  the  Dent-du-Midi,  and  casting  a  broad 
line  of  golden  radiance  across  the  waters.  Away 
stretched  the  beautiful  lake ;  far  in  the  distance 
streaks  of  daylight  yet  lingered ;  great  masses 
of  white  clouds  sailed  slowly  np  the  sky ;  the  air 
was  soft  and  warm,  as  if  the  sheltered  valley  had 
been  deep  in  Italy. 

Then  Elizabeth  walked  back  to  look  at  the 
chalet— along  building,  standing  upon  a  declivity 
which  brought  the  ground-floor  of  the  front  part 
on  a  level  with  the  upper  story  of  the  back.  A 
wide  gallery  ran  along  the  side,  roofed  by  the 
overhanging  eaves ;  at  the  back  was  a  flight  of 
stairs.  A  home  beneath  the  building  (of  course) 
for  the  cows,  and  a  paved  space  between  the 
chalet  and  villa,  with  a  fountain  sending  its  jet 
into  a  huge  stone  basin,  which'served  as  a  drink- 
ing-place  for  the  cattle  and  a  convenience  for 
the  wife  of  the  fcrmier  —  established  in  some 
rooms  next  the  cow-house — to  wash  her  clothes, 
Swiss  fashion,  in  cold  water. 

There  were  lights  in  the  upper  room  of  the 
chalet ;  a  young  girl  was  pacing  up  and  down 
the  long  gallery,  humming  snatches  of  French 
songs.  Elizabeth  stopped  under  the  shadow  of 
the  trees  to  look  at  her,  but  it  was  too  dark  to 
distinguish  more  than  a  tall,  slight  figure  wrapped 
in  a  loose  white  mantle.  Presently,  through  one 
of  the  open  windows,  came  a  peevish  voice,  call- 
ing in  French — 

"It  is  that  thou  art  resolved  to  take  cold,  I 
suppose?  Come  in,  I  entreat  thee,  my  child." 

"It  is  not  cold  in  the  least,"  replied  the  clear 
young  tones;  "and  I  do  not  wish  to  come  in. 
Thou  art  disagreeable,  mamma,  and  Monsieur 
La  Tour  is  disagreeable  likewise.  I  prefer  the 
gallery  and  my  own  society. '' 

Expostulations  from  the  peevish  voice,  en- 
treaties from  elderly  masculine  tones;  but  the 
girl  turned  impatiently  and  resumed  her  march. 
Elizabeth  walked  away,  smiling  at  the  brief 
dialogue,  and  entered  the  house. 

While  she  drank  her  tea,  Madame  Bocher  m 
formed  her  that  the  apartment  in  the  chalet  A 
occupied  by  a  lady  and  her  daughter.     T 
name  was  L'Estrange.     The  mother  was  s 
valid-here  for  her  health.     She  would  n 
liere  or  any  where  long.    Well,  we  must  all  d 
Mademoiselle  Nathalie  was  to  marry  Monsieur 
La  Tour.     He  was  a  little  elderly  man  with  a 
wig,  and  Mademoiselle  laughed  at  him  a  great 
deal.     She  was  a  blithe  young  thing,  was  Made- 
moiselle.    Madame  was  devote,  bigote  even- 
natural  enough,  since  she  must  die  soon.     But 
she  was  odd— very  odd !     However,  Madame 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


11 


Bochcr  was  not  one  to  gossip,  and  the  lady  paid 
her  bills  regularly,  and  Monsieur  le  Cure'  came 
several  times  a  week  from  Vevay  to  visit  her. 
Of  course,  under  other  circumstances  Madame 
might  wish  to  be  rid  of  her  lodger — nothing  hurt 
a  house  like  having  a  death  happen  in  it — but 
Madame's  lease  of  villa  and  chalet  would  expire 
in  the  spring,  and  who  could  be  cruel  enough  to 
turn  out  the  poor  invalid  when  she  had  a  fancy 
to  stay  ? 

"I  hear  a  carriage,"  Elizabeth  said  at  last, 
more  to  interrupt  Madame's  torrent  of  talk  than 
because  there  was  any  thing  extraordinary  in 
the  sounds  she  mentioned. 

"It  is  Monsieur  La  Tour  driving  away:  he 
stops  at  the  Hotel  du  Lac,  the  grand  hotel  by 
the  landing  near  Vevay, "  Madame  explained. 

Elizabeth  went  into  the  salon  ;  from  its  win- 
dows she  could  look  into  a  couple  of  rooms  in 
the  front  part  of  the  chalet.  She  saw  the  young 
girl  who  had  been  walking  in  the  gallery.  She 
had  her  window  open;  the  moon  lighted  her 
face — a  pretty,  girlish  face.  A  window  of  the 
salon  was  open  too.  At  some  noise  Elizabeth 
made  she  looked  up,  and  waved  her  hand  gayly. 

"Good-evening,"'  she  said  in  English,  with 
scarcely  a  trace  of  foreign  accent.  "We  are 
neighbors,  you  see ;  I  have  been  expecting  you 
all  day.  Ciel,  how  could  you  bear  to  come  to 
this  awful  place  ?  Mamma  will  be  in  bed  in  a 
few  minutes ;  then  I  am  going  down  to  the  lake ; 
don't  you  want  to  come  ?  Your  papa  is  in  his 
room  with  a  headache,  Madame  Bocher  told  me. 
She  tells  more  in  less  time  than  any  body  that 
ever  lived,  except  me.  But  I've  not  heard  your 
voice  yet;  to  be  sure,  I've  given  you  no  chance! 
Don't  speak ;  meet  me  under  the  great  willow. 
I  want  to  hear  your  voice  suddenly ;  then  I  shall 
know  if  we  are  to  be  friends  or  enemies — do  one 
another  good  or  harm." 

She  was  gone,  and  Elizabeth  stood  quite  con- 
fused by  this  sudden  and  rapid  outburst  of  talk, 
delivered  half  in  English,  half  in  French.  But 
it  did  not  weary  her  as  Madame  Bocher's  mono- 
logue had  done.  There  was  something  bright 
and  piquant,  more  in  the  way  the  words  were 
spoken  than  in  any  merit  they  themselves  pos- 
sessed, which  caused  Elizabeth  hastily  to  decide 
"at  the  stranger  would  prove  a  pleasant  com- 

"•ion. 

e  went  dutifully  up-stairs  to  inquire  after 

ther.  but  neuralgia  and  memory  had  been 

uch  for  him.     He   could  only  kiss  her 

iy,  grumble  a  little  about  Gervais,  and 

.  his  head  on  his  pillow.    So  there  was  noth- 

g.to  prevent  Elizabeth's  accepting  the- French 

id's  try.st  by  the  lake.     Margot  met  her  in  the 

all,  and  insisted  on  wrapping  a  shawl  about  her. 
Elizabeth  submitted,  because  that  was  the  quick- 
est way  to  get  her  liberty.  As  she  passed  the 
jreat  tree  which  spread  its  branches  out  over 
the  lake,  and  sighed  softly  to  the  whispers  of  the 


waves,  she  caught  sight  of  a  white-cloaked  figure 
on  the  bench  by  the  poplar  beyond.  She  re- 
membered the  French  girl's  odd  words.  Like 
most  young  people,  Elizabeth  was  fond  now  and 
then  of  yielding  to  superstitious  follies. 

"Here  I  am — is  it  for  good  or  evil?"  she 
called  suddenly. 

The  girl  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  sharp  cry — 
started  back  as  if  with  some  wild  intention  of 
running  away — then  moved  forward  a  few  steps, 
looked  full  in  Elizabeth's  face,  cried  out  again, 
tried  to  laugh,  and  ended,  to  Elizabeth's  great 
discomfiture,  by  bursting  into  a  flood  of  hyster- 
ical weeping. 

"I  frightened  you;  I  beg  your  pardon.  I 
oughtn't  to  have  come  up  so  quietly,"  she  said 
in  French. 

"No,  no,  it  is  not  that ;  it  is  not  that !  I  was 
waiting  for  you ;  but  it  is  for  no  good !  I  shall 
do  you  mischief;  I  know  I  shall  do  you  mis- 
chief." 

Elizabeth  began  to  laugh. 

"We  will  not  allow  the  old  Breton  supersti- 
tion so  much  weight,"  said  she.  "I  dare  say 
you  are  tired  to-night." 

"Yes,  mamma  was  so  wearisome,  and  Mon- 
sieur La  Tour  was  worse,"  returned  the  other, 
beginning  to  laugh  also.  "  What  a  goose  I  am! 
You  see  it  rained  yesterday,  and  I  could  not  get 
out;  and  to-day  mamma  was  suffering,  and 
needed  me — or  thought  she  did!" 

"Stopping  in  the  house  has  made  you  nervous 
and  excitable,"  added  Elizabeth,  kindly.  . 

"Yes,  that  is  it,"  returned  the  other;  but  she 
still  gazed  earnestly  at  her  new  acquaintance, 
and  shivered  as  if  the  air  had  grown  chill. 
"  Why,  there  is  nobody  to  introduce  us,"  she 
continued,  merrily.  "  Weil,  I  am  Nathalie 
L'Estrange." 

"And  I  am  Elizabeth  Crauford." 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  Madame  has  told  me ;  your 
papa  was  here  long  ago."  She  laughed  again. 
"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  it  seems  so  droll! 
Now  I  am  sure  that  twenty  years  hence  I  shall 
not  go  hunting  up  the  places  where  Monsieur 
La  Tour  and  I  spend  our  honeymoon.  I  am  to 
marry  Monsieur  La  Tour ;  of  course  Madame 
has  told  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Elizabeth,  not  knowing  what 
to  say.  and  wondering  if  she  ought  to  add  some 
sort  of  good  wish  or  other  polite  nothing. 

"Very  soon,  too,"  continued  Nathalie,  "and 
he  wears  a  wig!  Mon  Dieu!  in  the  convent  I 
always  said  I  would  die  before  I  would  do  that ; 
but,  after  all,  it  is  not  worth  while  to  die  for 
such  a  trifle — now  is  it  ?" 

Elizabeth  agreed  that  it  was  not  —  all  the 
same,  the  idea  of  the  wig  made  her  shudder. 

"I  am  just  nineteen,"  said  Nathalie.  "Ho\v 
old  are  you  ?" 

"About  twenty." 

"You  are  an  American.     So  was  my  papa, 


12 


MB.  YAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


for  all  he  had  a  French  name ;  but  I  never  saw 
him.  You  must  not  speak  of  him  to  mamma. 
I  have  lived  all  my  life  in  a  convent.  I  only 
came  out  to  be  married.  Are  you  going  to 
marry  ?" 

"I  don't  know  what  may  happen  to  me  in  the 
future,"  replied  Elizabeth,  smiling  at  the  other's 
childishness;  "but  I  entertain  no  such  intentions 
at  present." 

"They  say  American  girls  -choose  their  own 
husbands,"  pursued  Nathalie.  "  Well,  I  am 
sure  I  would  not  have  chosen  Monsieur  La  Tour. 
But  I  dare  say  he  will  do  tolerably  well ,  and  I 
have  no  dot,  so  mamma  thinks  I  am  very  fortu- 
nate. The  corbeille  will  come  next  week ;  she 
says  there  will  be  lovely  things  in  it.  But  how 
have  you  lived,  and  where  ?" 

"  We  were  in  Europe  a  good  while  when  I 
was  little.  I  was  bom  here,"  Elizabeth  said. 
"At  last  we  went  back  to  America,  and  lived  in 
the  country.  When  papa  and  I  were  left  alone, 
he  grew  weary  of  that,  and  we  crossed  the  ocean 
again.  This  time  we  have  been  here  four  years 
— sometimes  in  England,  but  mostly  in  Italy." 

"And  I  only  know  that  horrid  convent," 
sighed  Nathalie.  "  Mamma  sent  me  there 
when  I  was  a  tiny  thing.  It's  in  Paris — the 
Rue  Ficpus — where  the  grave  of  La  Fayette  is, 
in  the  cemetery  back,  down  beyond  the  alley  of 
lindens." 

"Oh,  I  know  it,"  rejoined  Miss  Crauford. 
"Such  a  still,  pretty  place !" 

"A  horrible  place,"  said  Nathalie;  "what 
the  English  girls  call  a  beast  of  a  place.  But  I 
used  to  rave  over  La  Fayette,  because  I  was  half 
American,  and  put  on  great  airs." 

"I  remember  the  beautiful  linden-tree  alley 
so  well,  and  the  bee-hives,  and  the  old  lame  gar- 
dener, and  the  sisters  in  their  white  dresses — " 

But  Nathalie  cut  Miss  Crauford's  reminis- 
cences short. 

"  You  make  me  shudder !  I  see  it  all  again, 
and  old  Sister  Ursule,  who  used  to  tyrannize 
over  us.  Bless  me,  any  thing  is  better  than 
that — even  to  marry  Monsieur  La  Tour." 

Love  and  marriage  were  sacred  subjects  to 
Elizabeth  —  inseparable,  too  —  vague,  visionary 
subjects,  which  looked  very  far  off,  very  beauti- 
ful, very  solemn.  It  hurt  her  somehow  to  hear 
her  companion  speak  like  that.  Yet  she  had 
lived  in  the  world  enough  to  know  that  such 
talk  and  ideas  as  Nathalie  evidently  cherished 
were  not  uncommon  among  her  sex. 

The  French  girl  had  turned  abruptly  away. 
She  sprang  on  the  low  wall  that  bordered  the 
liiv.ii  like  a  parapet,  and  walked  np  and  down  in 
silence,  while  Elizabeth  sat  and  watched  her. 
'it,  fruil  creature,  almost  giving  the  idea 
of  delicate  health,  but  the  form  so  wonderfully 
pliant  that  it  appeared  more  slender  than  it 
really  was ;  lovely  violet  eyes,  quantities  of 
golden  hair,  and  a  mouth  whose  smiles  were 


at  once  childlike  and  coquettish — sometimes 
fairly  cruel. 

Of  course  all  these  details  were  not  visible  to 
Miss  Crauford  in  the  uncertain  light,  but  the  de- 
scription may  as  well  be  set  down  here. 

She  seemed  a  creature  whose  nature  was  not 
yet  half  awake,  which  perhaps  lacked  force  ever 
to  develop  into  real  strength,  though  so  capri- 
cious that  she  would  appear  to  have  half-a-dozen 
natures  as  the  years  went  on.  A  girl  who,  wit'h 
a  stronger  organization,  mental  and  physical, 
might  have  grown  into  something  dangerous  as 
a  tigress  and  cruel  as  death,  sparing  neither  her- 
self nor  others  in  her  reckless  course.  But  the 
feline  instincts  would  probably  never  get  beyond 
the  kitten  stage.  She  might  do  mischief  enough, 
but  it  would  be  from  caprice  and  vanity,  not 
hardened  wickedness. 

She  darted  off  the  wall  as  suddenly  as  she  had 
mounted  it,  and  came  back  to  Miss  Crauford. 

"I  shall  love  yon  very  much,"  said  she. 
"  Haven't  you  a  pet  name — a  nickname,  as  you 
say  in  English  ?" 

"Papa  calls  me  Queenie," replied  Elizabeth, 
smiling  as  one  would  at  the  forwardness  of  a 
spoiled  child. 

"How  delightful!  I  shall  call  you  so  too — 
may  I,  Queenie  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  if  you  like." 

"  Reine!  That  is  better  yet.  You  look  like 
a  real  queen — so  stately  and — Oh,  dear,  do  you 
believe  you  are  prettier  than  I  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Elizabeth,  honestly.  She  greatly 
undervalued  her  own  pale,  grand  beauty,  and 
thought  Nathalie's  piquant  face  a  thousand  times 
more  attractive. 

"Well,  I  am  glad  of  it.  I  might  have  hated 
you  if  you  had  been  !" 

"  Just  for  that  ?" 

"  Of  course  !  Why,  there  are  only  two  things 
to  make  one  woman  hate  another — if  she's  more 
beautiful,  or  a  man  comes  between. " 

Miss  Crauford  looked  contemptuous. 

"  Both  odd  reasons,"  said  she. 

"Oh,  you  evidently  know  nothing  about  life, 
though  you  have  lived  in  the  world,'1  returned 
Nathalie,  sagely.  "But  ah,  my  presentiment; 
I  had  forgotten  that !" 

"Then  let  it  go,"  laughed  Elizabeth. 

"  So  I  will !  At  all  events,  it  is  not  now  I 
shall  hurt  you,  and  we  can  keep  out  of  each 
other's  way  hereafter.  Ay  de  mi!  (What  a 
lovely  Spanish  girl  we  had  in  the  convent !) 
It's  an  o  Id  world,  anyhow.  Hark,  there's  old 
Susanne  calling  me.  She  will  wake  mamma  if 
I  don't  go  in,  and  then  I  shall  get  a  dreadful 
lecture.  Good-night,  Queenie — good-night,  ma 
reine." 

Away  she  ran,  and  Elizabeth  followed  in  her 
sober,  dignified  fashion.  So  their  first  meeting 
ended  ;  but,  unimportant  as  it  seemed,  the  time 
was  to  come  when  Elizabeth  Crauford  would 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


13 


look  back  across  the  lapse  of  years,  and  shud- 
der to  remember  Nathalie's  childish  mirth  and 
frightened  warning. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A   CALIFORNIA   COURT-EOOM. 

THERE  is  a  certain  excitement  apparent  in 
Moysterville  this  morning.  The  town  always 
possesses  life  and  animation  enough,  but  it 
shows  something  more  now. 

A  crowd  fills  the  street  leading  to  the  court- 
house ;  groups  at  shop-doors  discourse  eagerly  ; 
a,  subdued,  fiery  indignation  is  apparent  on  all 
faces,  causing  one  to  think  of  days  gone  by, 
when  Moysterville  bore  a  less  pretentious  name, 
and  presented  a  very  different  aspect.  Those 
were  days  when  it  boded  ill  for  any  offender 
whose  crimes  or  misdemeanors  had  roused  that 
look  of  indignant  determination,  and  brought  a 
crowd  toward  Shippey's  "liquoring-place"  on 
the  confines  of  the  village. 

Shippey's  place  had  for  some  reason  been  ele- 
vated to  the  dignity  of  serving  as  court-room, 
and  there  stood  in  convenient  proximity— just  a 
little  back  toward  the  ravine — an  old  oak-tree, 
a  gnarled,  knotted  oak  which  had  suffered  from 
wind  and  storm  in  its  babyhood,  and  grown  up 
with  humps  on  its  trunk  ;  and  its  branches,  mis- 
shapen, and  many  of  them  dead,  stretched  down 
like  gigantic  hands  in  search  of  prey.  The  old 
tree  found  prey  enough  at  a  period  when  even 
peaceable,  God-fearing  citizens  were  forced  to 
admit  that  Judge  Lynch's  was  the  only  law  on 
which  they  could  depend  to  save  their  homes 
and  their  town  from  ruin. 

But  those  days  are  long  gone.  Shippey's  is 
not — the  oak  is  not — Lock-jaw  Corner  is  not. 
Here  is  Moysterville  now,  broad-streeted,  gas- 
lighted,  boasting  handsome  shops,  hotels,  thea- 
tres, and  a  fashionable  quarter.  The  town  no 
more  remembers  the  time  when  it  bore  the  ugly 
appellation  I  have  set  down  than  a  butterfly 
does  its  season  of  being  a  grub.  A  fine,  flour- 
ishing place  is  Moysterville ;  a  very  old  town 
(for  California),  and  a  rich  one — small  wonder, 
when  it  stands  within  the  shadow  of  the  mount- 
ains whose  hearts  are  gold,  with  a  broad  river 
to  help  its  commerce,  and  railways  -which  con- 
nect it  with  San  Francisco  and  Sacramento. 

But  this  morning  Moysterville,  as  I  said,  has 
a  certain  repressed  indignation  about  it  which 
reminds  more  than  one  of  Lock-jaw  Corner  and 
Shippey's,  and  the  old  oak  that  used  to  be  called 
"Luck's  End."  The  truth  is,  of  late  Moyster- 
ville has  been  very  much  annoyed  by  sundry  at- 
tempts at  garroting,  not  to  mention  outbreaks 
at  the  gambling-houses  and  rows  in  the  streets. 
Xow  Moysterville  has  put  all  these  annoyances 
to  the  score  of  a  party  of  "roughs  "from  San 


Francisco,  though  there  has  been  no  possibility 
of  fastening  the  crimes  upon  them.  But  only 
a  few  nights  since  a  woman  was  arrested  for 
stealing  some  valuable  jewels  from  a  man  stop- 
ping at  the  hotel  where  she  lodged.  Moyster- 
ville believes  that  at  her  trial  there  will  creep 
out  disclosures  which  may  serve  to  criminate 
the  rest  of  the  band  ;  for  it  is  a  foregone  conclu- 
sion in  the  mind  of  Moysterville  that  the  woman 
was  in  league  with  the  San  Francisco  despera- 
does. It  chanced  that  court  week  began  forty- 
eight  hours  after  this  woman's  arrest,  and  now, 
on  the  third  day  since  its  opening,  she  is  to 
have  her  trial. 

So  there  is  a  throng  in  the  street,  and  a  dense 
crowd  in  the  court-room,  waiting  with  what  pa- 
tience it  may  until  several  unimportant  cases  are 
disposed  of,  and  Milady  is  brought  into  public 
consideration. 

Every  body  knows  that  name  for  her,  and  no 
other.  During  several  seasons  there  was  a  noted 
drinking -house  in  a  bad  quarter  of  San  Fran- 
cisco which  bore  for  sign  "Milady's,"  and  this 
woman  ruled  over  the  den  and  the  gambling-ta- 
bles up  the  tortuous  back  stairs  where  the  police 
so  often  stumbled.  Milady  disappeared  from 
her  familiar  haunts  one  fine  day,  and  nobody 
thought  about  her  until  it  became  known  that 
she  was  the  person  accused  of  stealing  the  dia- 
monds, and  that  she  made  her  entry  into  Moys- 
terville at  the  same  time  as  the  gamblers  and  the 
garroting  attempts,  and  other  disturbances  of  the 
public  peace  by  which  the  town  had  been  of  late 
afflicted. 

There  is  another  cause  of  interest  afforded  by 
the  coming  trial,  which  affects  even  the  elegant 
portion  of  the  community  who  dwell  amid  the 
grandeur  of  the  court  end.  The  principal  wit- 
ness against  Milady  will  be  Darrell  Vaughan, 
who  has  just  come  into  possession  of  a  large  for- 
tune by  his  uncle's  death.  Though  Darrell 
Vaughan  is  not  a  resident  of  Moysterville,  and 
was  never  here  until  a  short  time  before  his  rela- 
tive's decease,  every  body  knows  about  him,  and 
the  court  end  has  a  natural  interest  in  his  affairs. 

Moysterville  considers  it  a  most  fortunate  thing 
that  old  Mr.  Vaughan  died  here,  and  that  his 
nephew  came  to  catch  his  last  sigh  and  inherit 
his  fortune,  because  it  has  been  through  the 
young  man's  assistance  that  Milady  was  en- 
trapped. Pious  people  call  it  a  "providential 
circumstance,"  and  even  those  who  are  not  pi- 
ous feel  a  sense  of  obligation  toward  Darrell 
Vaughan,  since  they  hope  that  in  the  course  of 
Milady's  trial  there  may  come  out  damning  evi- 
dence against  those  men  who  have  so  lightly  dis- 
regarded Moysterville's  power. 

The  last  trifling  case  ends — there  is  a  sudden 
hush  in  the  court.  Even  judge  and  jury  look 
with  undisguised  interest  toward  the  door, 
through  which  a  brace  of  constables  lead,  or 
rather  force,  a  veiled  woman,  who  obstinately 


MR.  VAUGIIAN'S  HEIR. 


hangs  back,  and  is  not  to  be  induced  to  take  her 
proper  position  by  any  gentle  means. 

The  preliminaries  are  gone  through ;  the  wom- 
an sits  crouched  on  the  bench  where  she  was 
placed,  huddled  together  in  an  odd  fashion, 
which  N  mehow  suggests  a  wild  animal  about  to 
spring.  But  she  never  stirs ;  does  not  even 
move  her  hands,  which  lie  crossed  in  her  lap — 
small  white  hands,  too,  though  disfigured  by 
sundry  scratches  and  red  marks,  the  result  of  the 
struggle  wherein  she  indulged  when  the  officers 
arrested  her.  She  is  ordered  to  put  up  her  veil, 
but  she  pays  no  attention.  A  constable  draws 
the  lace  oft'  her  head — she  wears  n6  bonnet.  His 
quick  movement  brings  away  the  comb  which 
confines  her  hair,  and  that  falls  in  heavy,  dark 
masses  down  her  back,  unkempt  and  ill  arranged, 
but  beautiful  hair  still.  Her  face  is  visible  now 
— a  face  which  is  young,  though  without  a  trace 
of  youth  in  it,  which  must  once  have  been  mar- 
velonsly  lovely ;  not  so  many  years  ago  either, 
for  Milady  is  not  over  twenty-five.  The  com- 
plexion is  fair  yet ;  the  month,  sullen  and  hard 
as  it  is,  possesses  a  certain  feminine  softness; 
the  low,  broad  forehead  is  smooth  and  white. 
It  is  an  utterly  reckless,  hopeless,  apathetic  face 
— a  face  that  tells  of  degradation  and  sin  and 
evil  courses,  of  womanly  instincts  grown  fiendish, 
and  womanly  gifts  employed  only  as  additional 
aids  in  an  awful  life. 

She  wears  a  rusty  black-silk  gown,  somewhat 
frayed  and  rent ;  an  old  shawl  drawn  over  this  : 
but  the  ladies  from  the  court  end  of  town  notice 
that  the  faded  garment  is  of  Indian  cashmere — 
a  relic,  probably,  of  days  when  sin  brought  pleas- 
anter  wages  than  it  has  done  of  late.  It  is  evi- 
dent that  she  has  made  no  effort  to  arrange  her 
uttire  before  coming  into  court.  She  looks  tum- 
bled, soiled  —  a  mere  wreck  of  what  was  once 
beauty  and  grace ;  yet  there  is  an  odd  pathetic 
shadow  of  the  old  fascination  left  about  her  still. 

Suddenly  Milady  raises  her  eyes  ;  she  has  not 
1-cfjre  so  much  as  stirred  finger  or  eyelash — has 
not  appeared  even  conscious  where  she  was  since 
the  constables  pushed  her  down  upon  the  bench. 
But  Milady  looks  up  now.  Her  great  brown 
eyes  wander  slowly  about  the  court-room ;  there 
is  a  dull  film  over  them — a  film  through  which 
they  blaze  with  sombre  fire.  It  is  plain  that  she 
sees  nothing  in  that  long,  slow  gaze  she  bestows 
upon  the  throng— nothing  whatever.  They  are 
like  the  eyes  of  a  dead  person,  yet  as  if  the  dead 
person  had  been  consumed  to  the  last  by  a  fever 
so  horrible  that  the  flame  and  heat  are  not 
burned  out,  thougli  death  has  mastered  all  the 
real. 

the  attention  of  the  crowd  is 

;  on  her,  for  certain  ques- 

;ire  being  put  by  the  grave  sen-ant  of  the 

Uw.     Her  name  is  asked.     She  does  not  seem 

.1  she  is  addressed.     The  lids  have 

fellcn  over  those  heavy  eyes.    She  sits  as  motion- 


less as  ever.  An  impatient  constable  near — fur 
from  first  to  last  they  have  guarded  the  woman 
with  unusual  care— touches  her  shoulder,  and  in 
a  whisper  bids  her  speak. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?" 

The  great  eyes  are  lifted  again  so  quickly  that 
their  blaze  startles  the  very  judge  in  his  chair 
and  the  jury  on  their  bench. 

"Milady,"  says  she,  in  a  hoarse  voice. 

It  is  suggested  to  her  that  this  is  no  name 
whatever.  At  the  little  preliminary  exam- 
ination on  the  occasion  of  her  arrest  she  was 
hopelessly  obstinate.  There  is  nothing  to  be 
gained  by  this ;  it  will  be  much  wiser  to  answer 
civilly.  Now  she  does  indeed  look  hopelessly 
obstinate.  The  mouth  shuts  as  if  the  delicate 
jaw  were  framed  of  iron ;  the  whole  face  grows 
so  much  more  hard,  dull,  and  dogged  that  the 
spectators  wonder  they  could  have  thought  it  all 
those  before. 

The  hope  in  the  minds  of  judge,  lawyers,  and 
the  rest  is  that  this  woman  may  be  induced  to 
turn  State's  evidence  against  the  men  whom  ev- 
ery body  believes  her  accomplices — men  who  are 
more  than  suspected  of  having  been  engaged  in 
the  great  Sacramento  robbery  a  few  months  pre- 
vious. Hence,  before  the  district  attorney  be- 
gins his  statement  of  the  case,  this  somewhat 
informal  questioning  has  been  attempted.  Cer- 
tain hints  of  what  is  desired  of  her  are  thrown 
out — they  can  not  be  new ;  she  has  heard  such 
several  times  during  the  past  days — but  she 
made  no  sign  of  comprehending  then,  and  she 
makes  none  now. 

"What  is  your  age?"  is  the  next  question, 
tried  in  a  mild  tone,  as  if  by  way  of  holding  a 
little  amicable  conversation. 

Then  comes  a  quick  answer,  in  the  form  of 
an  interrogatory  though,  and  not  at  all  what 
could  have  been  expected  ;  it  is — 

"  How  old  is  your  sister  ?" 

A  subdued  titter  goes  through  the  room. 
Judge,  jury,  and  lawyers  are  furious.  Consta- 
bles would  like  to  believe  that  a  knot  of  men 
suspected  of  belonging  to  the  band  of  despera- 
does have  been  guilty  of  this  infraction  of  order, 
but  the  men  are  stolid  and  serious. 

There  is  one  more  question  attempted — 

"  Will  you  tell  your  nnme  and  birthplace?'1 

Milady,  roused  into  life,  bends  forward  in  her 
seat,  clasps  the  railing  in  front  of  her  so  tightly 
that  the  muscles  stand  out  on  her  lithe,  clungdr- 
ous-looking  hands ;  her  eyes  blaze  so  fiercely 
for  an  instant  that  the  film  over  them  is  quite 
dispelled. 

''You  go  to  hell!"  she  exclaims,  with  a  fero- 
cious candor  which  under  any  circumstances 
would  do  much  toward  settling  her  case  in  ad- 
vance with  both  judge  and  jury. 

Nobody  laughs  now.  There  is  something  fair- 
ly melodramatic  and  awful  about  the  woman, 
in  spite  of  the  coarse  speech.  She  lets  her 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


hands  fall  from  the  railing ;  sinks  slowly  back  in 
her  seat,  her  body  and  limbs  huddled  together 
in  that  strange  attitude  so  like  a  wild  animal 
crouched  ready  to  spring;  and  the  lids  droop 
again  over  the  fiery  eyes. 

The  prosecuting  attorney  begins  his  speech ; 
he  explains  the  charge;  he  goes  on  grandilo- 
quently to  state  how  he  is  prepared  to  prove  by 
competent  witnesses  the  woman's  positive  guilt. 
Yet  even  here  he  is  mindful  of  that  wish  in  all 
hearts  to  persuade  the  creature  into  revelations 
which  shall  bring  to  justice  more  dangerous 
criminals  than  herself.  She  listens  for  the  first 
time ;  looks  toward  him  in  a  perplexed,  ab- 
sorbed way ;  lifts  her  hand,  and  astounds  all  list- 
eners by  her  sharp,  hoarse  voice. 

"I  wouldn't  waste  my  breath,  old  fogy !  Mi- 
lady I  am  —  game  to  the  last.  Now  push  on 
with  your  caravan." 

The  prosecuting  attorney  brings  his  speech  to 
a  hasty  conclusion ;  Milady  has  made  a  climax 
which  renders  any  efforts  at  eloquence  on  his 
part  utterly  futile. 

The  first  witness  comes  forward.  He  is  only 
a  waiter  at  the  hotel.  His  evidence  is  not  im- 
portant ;  though  every  body  listens  attentively  to 
what  he  has  to  say — every,  body  except  Mila- 
dy— she  evidently  has  lost  interest  in  the  pro- 
ceedings. Another  witness — not  much  more  ex- 
citing. Milady  is  still  absent,  dull,  vacant,  look- 
ing as  if  partially  stupefied  by  the  influence  of 
some  powerful  drug. 

Darrell  Vaughan  is  called;  straightway  he 
emerges  from  a  nook  where  he  has  been  en- 
sconced to  avoid  attention — a  tall,  handsome 
young  man — and  takes  his  place  in  the  witness- 
box.  Milady  has  not  stirred  at  the  utterance 
of  his  name ;  seems  unconscious  of  his  proxim- 
ity. She  does  not  look  up  while  the  oath  is  ad- 
ministered, but  his  voice  answering  the  first 
question  bongs  her  out  of  her  stupor. 

Again  she  leans  forward  in  her  seat — the  eyes 
of  the  accused  and  the  witness  meet  and  look 
full  into  each  other.  If  it  were  not  a  folly,  one 
might  say  that  the  calm,  steady  gaze  of  the  wit- 
ness holds  a  strange  menace  and  warning.  One 
might  say  that  Milady  feels  it  too,  for  she  drops 
again  into  her  former  attitude,  only  her  eyes 
never  leave  the  witness's  face ;  there  is  no  fire 
left  in  them  now— they  are  quite  dead  and  cold. 

I  have  no  intention  of  carrying  you  through  a 
chapter  of  such  details  as  you  might  read  in  the 
columns  of  a  police  newspaper.  The  evidence 
against  Milady  was  conclusive,  and  I  shall  give 
it  in  a  few  words.  Uarrell  Vanghan  had  gone 
in  the  dusk  of  evening  to  call  upon  Mr.  Carstce, 
an  agent  for  the  Moysterville  property  lately 
come  into  the  young  man's  possession.  :  Mr. 
Carstoe  lived  at  a  second-rate  hotel ;  he  was  to 
set  out  the  next  morning  for  San  Francisco  with 
these  diamonds,  which  he  had  taken  in  payment 
of  a  debt.  There  were  two  studs,  a  ring,  and  a 


quantity  of  unset  stones — a  rare  and  valuable 
emerald  among  them  ;  the  market  value  of  the 
whole  perhaps  reaching  thirteen  thousand  dol- 
lars. Their  loss  will  be  ruin  to  Mr.  Carstoe. 
He  went  through  a  long,  tedious  suit  to  get  them 
from  a  former  partner  in  business,  who  had 
cheated  him  in  their  affairs,  destroyed  his  pros- 
pects, and  yet  kept  himself  secure  from  the  law 
for  years. 

Mr.  Carstoe  had  taken  the  jewels  out  of  the 
bank,  intending  to  start  by  the  next  morning's 
early  train.  Vaughan  was  with  him  when  he 
went  on  his  errand. 

The  two  stood  on  the  outer  steps  of  the  house, 
and  talked  about  the  diamonds,  Vaughan  being 
of  opinion  that  Mr.  Carstoe  would  do  better  to 
send  the  gems  to  New  York  than  to  sell  them  in 
San  Francisco.  They  had  held  a  long  and  ani- 
mated discussion  when  they  became  aware  that 
the  woman  called  Milady  was  standing  just  be- 
hind them  in  the  hall.  The  bank  was  in  an  up- 
per story  ;  the  lower  floor  held,  shops,  offices, 
and,  in  a  court  at  the  back,  an  establishment 
where  money  was  lent  upon  tangible  securities. 

The  two  gentlemen  stepped  aside  to  let  the 
woman  pass ;  they  both  saw  her  face  distinctly. 
Whether  she  had  just  come  up  or  had  remain- 
ed listening  to  their  conversation  neither  knew, 
nor  did  either,  it  appeared,  think  about  the  mat- 
ter at  the  time. 

On  the  evening  of  this  day  Vaughan  went  to 
the  hotel  where  Mr.  Carstoe  lodged  ;  he  had 
asked  that  gentleman  to  carry  a  parcel  for  him 
to  a  friend  in  San  Francisco.  The  waiter  be- 
lieved that  Mr.  Carstoe  was  in  his  room,  so 
Vaughan-  walked  on  up  the  two  flights  of  stairs 
which  led  to  No.  45.  No.  45  was  a  room  down 
a  narrow,  dark  passage  off  the  broad  corridor 
traversing  the  house.  A  woman — it  was  Milady 
— came  swiftly  out  of  this  passage,  and  passed 
Mr.  Vaughan  without  seeing  him,  as  he  stood  in 
the  shadow,  uncertain  whether  he  had  takeu  the 
right  turning. 

Mr.  Carstoe  was  not  in  his  chamber ;  the  door 
was  locked.  Vaughan  waited  for  a  little  in  the 
corridor,  thinking  Mr.  Carstoe  might  appear. 
At  last  he  went  down  stairs  again,  and  confided 
his  packet  to  the  waiter,  with  instructions  that 
it  should  be  given  to  Mr.  Carstoe.  Vaughan 
went  home.  Before  the  evening  was  over  Mr. 
Carstoe  came  to  tell  hira  that  the  diamonds  had 
been  stolen.  It  had  immediately  occurred  to 
him  that  he  and  Vaughan  had  been  passed  by 
Milady  on  the  bank  steps.  The  suspicion  in  his 
mind  was  of  course  rendered  a  certainty  by 
Vaughan's  having  seen  Milady  come  out  of  the 
passage  which  led  to  room  No.  45. 

The  two  went  at  once  before  a  magistrate, 
and  procured  without  difficulty  a  wan-ant  for  the 
woman's  arrest.  When  they  reached  the  hotel, 
in  company  with  the  officer,  the  waiter  —  the 
same  to  whom  Vaughan  had  confided  the  packet 


1C 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


—told  them  that  Milady  had  not  left  the  house. 
She  was,  indeed,  found  in  her  apartment  in  a 
deep,  lethargic  sleep,  from  which  it  was  difficult 
to  rouse  her.  Her  dress  was  open,  and  fasten- 
ing the  band  of  her  chemise  was  a  diamond 
stud,  which  Mr.  Carstoe  recognized  as  his  prop- 
erty. But  no  trace  of  the  other  jewels  appeared. 
In  the  bottom  of  Milady's  trunk  was  discovered 
a  skeleton-key  done  up  in  a  package  of  rags. 
Probably  this  key  was  to  have  been  thrown  into 
the  river,  but,  oppressed  by  drink  or  opium,  the 
woman  had  lain  down  to  sleep  first.  The  general 
theory  was  that  a  confederate  had  taken  the  dia- 
monds away  at  once,  that  from  some  freak  of 
feminine  vanity  she  had  retained  the  button  which 
completed  the  chain  of  evidence  against  her. 

Like  a  mad  woman  Milady  fought,  and  the 
faces  of  the  officer  and  the  waiter,  called  in  to 
assist,  were  tattooed  as  curiously  as  those  of 
South  Sea  Islanders  before  she  was  secured.  She 
refused  to  walk ;  she  yelled  like  a  wild  beast  in 
the  street ;  in  the  end  she  had  been  tied  hand 
and  foot,  thrown  upon  a  dray,  and  conveyed  to 
jail. 

Mr.  Carstoe  was  not  a  vindictive  man :  many 
persons  thought  he  showed  great  weakness  in 
the  matter,  a  culpable  pity  for  the  woman,  but 
he  could  not  avoid  pursuing  the  case.  Darrell 
Vaughan  was  firm,  though  very  kind  to  Milady. 
He  actually  visited  her  cell,  and  promised,  for  Mr. 
Carstoe,  that  the  proceedings  should  be  dropped 
if  she  would  disclose  the  names  of  her  confed- 
erates. 

Until  Vaughan  undertook  this  merciful  er- 
rand Milady  had  raged  up  and  down  her  narrow 
quarters  like  a  bedlamite,  beating  herself  against 
the  barred  window  and  the  iron  door ;  but  from 
that  time  till  she  appeared  in  the  court-room  to 
undergo  her  trial  she  remained  perfectly  quiet 
— apathetic  even. 

Mr.  Vaughau  made  no  discoveries ;  he  repre- 
sented Milady  as  never  so  much  as  speaking  to 
or  looking  at  him  during  the  half-hour  he  stood 
pleading  with  her.  But  from  that  moment  she 
became  composed — sleeping  a  good  deal,  or,  if 
not  sleeping,  lying  for  hours  on  her  truckle-bed 
with  her  eyes  half  shut.  The  jailor  knew  that 
she  was  under  the  influence  of  some  drug,  but 
though  they  searched  her  and  the  cell,  nothing 
was  found,  nor  did  it  seem  that  she  wished  to  kill 
herself — probably  it  was  an  old  habit  to  deaden 
her  senses  in  this  way. 

There  had  been  such  firm  belief  that  she 
could  give  information  which  would  lead  to  the 
tracking  of  the  Sacramento  thieves  that  many 
Efforts  were  made  during  the  diiys  she  lay  in  jail 
before  her  trial.  A  clergyman  went  to  see  her; 
•  :ile  philanthropist  paid  her  a  visit; 
both  interview!)  taking  place  after  Darrell  Vaugh- 
an'i  generous  effort  to  save  her— an  effort  which 
was  considered  at  the  court  end  of  town  a  feat 
more  noble  than  that  of  any  handsome  Paladin 


of  old.  Neither  clergyman  nor  philanthropist 
was  more  successful  than  Mr.  Vaughan.  Dur- 
ing the  clergyman's  eloquent  exhortation  Mi- 
lady uttered  but  one  remark — she  repeated  that 
with  such  sullen  persistency,  and  it  was  in  itself 
so  absurd  and  irrelevant,  that  the  good  man 
could  only  suppose  her  brain  disordered  by  the 
drugs  she  had  taken. 

"Twice  ten  are  twenty — he  said  so — twice 
ten  are  twenty." 

The  virgin  philanthropist  was  quickly  driven 
from  the  field  in  disgust.  She  had  requested  the 
keeper  to  stand  at  the  door  during  her  inter- 
view, in  order  that  there  might  be  a  witness  of 
her  fervid  eloquence.  Milady  sat  crouched  on 
a  bench  when  the  servant  of  Vesta  and  all  good 
works  entered ;  it  was  one  of  Milady's  utterly 
dead  hours.  At  length  she  interrupted  the  phi- 
lanthropist by  a  question  —  a  question  which 
convinced  that  lady  of  the  creature's  utter  de- 
pravity, and  the  uselessness  of  trying  to  aid  her, 
though  there  was  neither  sneer  nor  mockery  in 
Milady's  voice ;  an  odd  tremulousness  crossed 
her  features,  and  her  glazed  eyes  softened  for 
the  first  and  last  time,  as  if  they  had  tears  under 
them. 

"  Have  you  got  a  baby  ?"  she  asked. 

The  philanthropist  was  convulsed  with  rage, 
the  keeper  outside  nearly  suffocated  himself  in 
an  attempt  to  stifle  his  laughter,  but  Milady  only 
stared  straight  before  her,  with  the  same  shadow 
of  softening  in  her  stony  face. 

The  daughter  of  Duty  was  gone  ;  the  keeper 
locked  the  cell  and  followed  her.  As  he  closed 
the  grating,  he  saw  Milady  look  wildly  about, 
raise  her  arms  high  above  her  head,  and  fall  or 
throw  herself  heavily  upon  the  floor ;  but  he 
had  no  time  to  waste  over  her  performances. 
Let  her  bang  about  and  bruise  her  body  if  she 
liked,  she  could  do  herself  no  real  harm. 

So  the  trial  has  come  on  and  ended.  The  jury 
has  no  need  to  leave  the  box.  The  verdict  re- 
quires brief  deliberation — guilty,  of  course.  Yet 
when  it  does  come,  few  people  can  be  quite  un- 
moved ;  many  ladies  shiver  and  weep,  and  Dar- 
rell Vaughan  looks  pale  and  worn,  and  leans  his 
head  wearily  on  his  hand.  But  Milady  is  ut- 
terly untouched ;  she  does  pot  appear  to  have 
heard ;  her  head  is  bent,  and  under  the  shadow 
of  her  forehead  those  dull  eyes  always  watch 
Darrell  Vaughan.  His  glance  never  left  her 
while  giving  his  evidence ;  it  has  held  her  firmly 
ever  since  he  finished  and  seated  himself  almost 
in  front  of  her. 

Then  the  judge's  hard  little  speech,  and  the 
judge's  sentence.  Milady  is  to  have  ten  years 
in  the  penitentiary ! 

She  hears  that — she  rises — she  is  looking  still 
at  Darrell  Vaughan,  not  at  the  judge — her  voice 
is  audible. 

"  Ten  years.     Oh,  my  God !  ten  years !" 

If  it  were  not  a  folly,  one  might  say  that 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


17 


Vaughan's  firm  lips  frame  the  words  also, "Ten 
years  —  ten  years,"  while  hia  eyes  never  move 
from  hers. 

A  stir,  a  rustle  among  the  audience,  promptly 
repressed  by  the  constables.  Hush,  the  judge  is 
speaking  again.  Ten  years  in  the  penitentiary 
for  Milady !  At  the  end  of  that  time  there  will 
follow  a  new  case,  if  in  the  mean  while  Milady 
has  not  come  to  her  senses  enough  to  give  the 
evidence  which  they  are  morally  certain  she  pos- 
sesses in  regard  to  the  Sacramento  robbery — a 
new  case  which  the  judge  promises  her  shall  add 
yet  ten  more  years  to  her  term  of  imprison- 
ment. He  does  not  explain,  but  most  people 
have  heard  something  of  this  other  business  dur- 
ing the  last  few  days.  Stories  have  spread  that 
Milady  had  attempted  to  steal  documents  and 
bonds  from  old  Mr.  Vaughan's  house  just  after 
his  death.  So,  altogether,  this  affair  of  Milady's 
creates  great  excitement,  because  it  is  felt  and 
believed  that  she  is  only  an  instrument  in  the 
hands  of  those  abandoned  men  whom  she  so  ob- 
stinately refuses  to  betray. 

"Ten  years,  and  again  ten  ;  you  will  no  more 
escape  the  iron  hand  of  Justice  then  than  you 
have  done  now." 

She  hears  the  judge's  words — she  is  on  her 
feet  —  her  apathy  or  stupor  quite  gone.  She 
writhes  to  and  fro  —  her  hands  work  up  and 
down.  Only  that  it  is  a  foolish  thought,  one 
might  say  she  is  like  a  person  partially  magnet- 
ized, trying  to  break  the  spell  as  she  turns  and 
twists  and  strives  to  move  her  eyes  from  Vaugh- 
nn's.  Then  at  last  her  voice  rings  out,  sharp  and 
discordant.  She  has  half  flung  herself  over  the 
railing.  Her  eyes,  mad  with  newly  awakened 
agony,  seek  judge  and  jury. 

"Oh,  my  God!  gentlemen,  ten  years !  I  can't 
go  to  prison  for  ten  years,"  cries  the  suddenly 
distracted  creature.  "  I  can't  go — what  will  be- 
come of  the  child  ?" 

Let  us  hope  there  are  hearts  to  which  that 
cry  strikes  home ;  lost,  fallen  as  she  is,  let  us 
hope  it !  Let  us  believe  that  even  the  judge  has 
a  struggle  to  say  so  sternly — 

"  You  should  have  thought  of  that  before." 

"Ten  years!  Oh,  my  God!  I  can't!  Ten 
years!  Oh!  the  child!" 

Milady  has  dropped  on  her  knees  now,  still 
clinging  to  the  railing.  Her  dilated  eyes  have 
wandered  from  judge  and  jury — wandered  back 
to  Vaughan's  face.  Perhaps  she  does  not  see 
him ;  perhaps  she  is  only  blindly  gazing  about  for 
some  trace  of  pity,  some  hopeless  hope  of  help. 

"Ten  years!  Oh,  my  God!  gentlemen,  I 
can't !  Oh  !  the  child,  the  child  !" 

There  are  tears  now  from  women,  and  men 
too.  No  change  could  have  been  more  sudden 
or  more  unexpected  to  the  spectators  themselves 
than  this  which  has  come  over  them. 

Milady  is  still  on  her  knees,  swaying  to  and 
fro,  smiting  her  breast  with  her  hands,  her  great, 
B 


tearless  eyes  uplifted,  and  again  her  voice  rings 
out  in  that  frantic  wail — 

"Ten  years!  Oh,  my  God!  I  can't!  Oh! 
the  child,  the  child  !" 

The  constables  approach  ;  she  pushes  them 
off ;  she  fights  like  a  maddened  animal ;  her 
long  hair  floats  out  like  a  torn,  bright  banner 
in  her  struggles.  Women  cover  their  faces. 
Strong  men  turn  away  unnerved.  Always  Dar- 
rell  Vaughan  leans  back  in  his  seat,  pale,  weary, 
watching  still. 

"  Ten  years  !     Oh,  my  God !  the  child  !" 

Still  that  agonized  cry  —  a  horrible  moan 
now.  The  officers  have  seized -her,  bound  her 
hands.  She  is  lifted  from  the  dock  and  carried 
away ;  but  to  the  last  that  cry  rings  back — a 
low  groan  only,  but  piercing  as  a  shriek — 

"  Ten  years  !     Oh,  my  God  !  the  child  !" 

The  court  adjourns,  and  the  crowd  spring  up 
eager  to  get  out.  They  had  come  for  a  sensa- 
tion, but  this  closing  scene  has  been  more  than 
they  bargained  for.  Milady  goes  back  to  jail 
as  a  temporary  residence  before  repairing  to  her 
quarters  in  the  penitentiary.  People  go  off  to 
their  employments,  to  drinking-places,  and  those 
from  the  court  end  return  home  to  dinner,  for 
the  September  day  is  drawing  to  a  close  when 
the  throng  gets  into  the  street. 

Great  piles  of  gorgeous  red  and  yellow  clouds 
have  gathered  in  the  west  and  cast  a  lurid  light 
over  the  mountain- tops,  which  rise  frowningly 
above  the  town,  strike  the  river  with  their  fiery 
tints,  and  turn  it  into  a  sea  of  flame. 

The  court-house  and  the  jail  stand  near  the 
water,  an  open  space  in  front.  As  Milady  is 
hurried  from  one  to  the  other,  she  too  catches 
sight  of  the  bright  sunset.  If  the  constables 
were  weak,  imaginative  men,  they  might  wonder 
what  thoughts  are  roused  in  her  mind  by  the 
sudden  glory  which  she  may  perhaps  not  see 
again  for  years.  But  the  constables  are  staid, 
sensible  fellows,  bent  on  their  duty — that  of  get- 
ting Milady  as  speedily  as  possible  into  her  cell 
before  her  demons  again  attack  her ;  and  Milady 
only  gives  one  groan,  half  of  misery,  half  of 
sullen  defiance,  and  allows  herself  to  be  led  on. 


CHAPTER  III. 

AFTER    THE    TRIAL. 

THE  comfortable  carriage  in  which  old  Mr. 
Vaughan,  deceased,  used  to  take  his  airings 
during  the  months  he  had  for  some  years  an- 
nually spent  at  Moysterville,  drives  up  to  the 
court-house.  Young  Mr.  Vaughan  comes  out 
surrounded  by  a  group  of  the  principal  person- 
ages of  the  town,  who  delight  to  do  him  honor. 
There  are  the  mayor  and  the  judge,  and  sev- 
eral lawyers  and  merchants  with  marriageable 
daughters,  and  they  are  all  exceedingly  friendly 


18 

with  young  Mr.  Vaughan. 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 

But  lie  looks  tired  !  last  rnys  of  the  setting  sun  touch  DarreU's  fore- 


and  pale  still,  and  gets  away  as  soon  as  he  can, 
though  he  has  something  pleasant  and  fitting  to 
say  to  each  of  the  prosperous  gentlemen,  and  he 
savs  it  with  a  grace  and  cordiality  which  are 
fascinating  indeed. 

Then  he  takes  the  arm  of  Mr.  Carstoe,  who 
has  stood  modestly  aside,  as  befits  his  humbler 
station,  and  walks  on  toward  his  carriage.  But 
Mr.  Carstoe  receives  greetings,  too,  from  the 
great  men,  somewhat  patronizing,  no  doubt; 
but,  in  his  way,  Mr.  Carstoe  is  a  person  who 
deserves  and  gains  respect. 

"You  will  come  and  dine  with  me,"  Darrell 
Vaughan  observes,  as  the  sleek,  fat  horses  trot 
off  in  a  decorous  fashion.  "  What  a  set  of  tire- 
some idiots  those  fellows  are  !  Now  that  is  a  dan- 
gerous freedom  of  speech,  Carstoe  —  but  you  are 
a  safe  man  ;  one  can  say  what  one  likes  to  you.  " 

Mr.  Carstoe  smiles  grimly,  yet  it  is  evident 
he  appreciates  the  compliment  ;  that  the  smile 
looks  grim  is  the  fault  of  his-  features,  not  his 
will.  He  is  thin,  weedy,  anxious  looking,  with 
a  stoop  in  his  back  and  a  melancholy  crack  in 
his  voice,  but  the  face  possesses  energy,  and 
truthfulness  into  the  bargain.  The  world  has 
not  dealt  kindly  with  Mr.  Carstoe.  He  came 
to  California  long  years  before,  when  other  men 
coined  gold  whichever  way  they  turned,  but 
somehow  misfortune  always  stood  between  him 
and  the  wealth  he  was  just  ready  to  touch. 
Since  his  partner  ruined  him  he  has  subsided 
into  a  small  lawyer  and  agent  for  other  peo- 
ple's property,  and  is  a  man  to  be  trusted, 
else  he  would  never  have  been  admitted,  as  all 
Moysterville  knows  he  was,  to  the  confidence 
of  the  late  Mr.  Vaughan,  as  suspicious  and  rest- 
less  a  gentleman  as  cghld  easily  be  found  even 
among  those  unfortunates  of  the  earth  —  old 
men  with  goodly  fortunes  which  they  must  soon 


The  carriage  crosses  the  bridge,  rolls  down 
the  principal  street,  gay  with  shops  and  showy 
hotels,  and  makes  its  way  up  the  hill  toward 
the  quarter  of  the  town  where  fashion  dwells. 
Very  elegant  houses  there  are  here,  filled  with 
gorgeous  furniture  and  Parisian  luxuries  ;  and 
dinners  and  balls  are  given  in  them,  and  life  is 
so  dull  and  stereotyped  that  one  wonders  these 
dwellers  in  a  new  land  are  content  to  accept  it. 

On  the  outskirts  of  this  little  star  of  avenues 
and  streets  stands  the  commodious  villa  erected 
by  Mr.  Vaughan  several  years  since,  when  the 
physicians  recommended  the  climate  of  California 
as  likely  to  invigorate  his  failing  health.  A  fine 
place,  with  o  broad  lawn,  and  grand  old  trees 
spared  in  the  destruction  of  the  noble  grove  which 
once  towered  here.  Within  there  is  comfort  and 
elegance,  for  in  his  quiet  fashion  Mr.  Vaughan 
had  liked  to  enjoy  the  wealth  heaped  up  by  his 
own  exertion-. 

The  carriage  stops  before  the  entrance  ;  the 


head  as  he  descends,  and  with  his  usual  courtesy 
offers  an  arm  to  his  elderly  companion. 

"It  has  grown  chilly,"  Darrell  says,  and 
shivers. 

As  he  speaks,  at  the  other  end  of  the  city  the 
door  of  a  prison  cell  has  shut ;  a  turnkey  has 
brought  Milady  her  supper,  and  locked  her  in 
alone  for  the  night — alone  with  her  ghosts  and 
her  remorse,  if  she  is  haunted  by  such — alone 
with  the  miserable  plaint  which  still  at  intervals 
breaks  from  her  white  lips — the  wail  whose 
fierce  agony  startled  judge  and  jury,  witnesses 
and  court,  not  long  since  in  the  court-room — 
"My  child  !  Oh,  God  1  my  child  !" 

The  great  doors  of  the  villa  have  closed  upon 
Vaughan  and  his  guest.  The  host  leads  the 
way  to  the  library,  where  the  gas-lamps  are  al- 
ready lighted,  and  a  log  of  odorous  Californian 
wood  blazes  on  the  hearth.  It  is  too  early  in 
the  season  for  the  nights  to  be  very  cool,  but 
old  Mr.  Vaughan  liked  a  fire  at  most  times,  and 
the  housekeeper  has  ordered  it  to  be  lighted 
from  habit. 

"  We  shall  have  dinner  in  twenty  minutes, 
they  say,"  observed  Darrell.  "  Let's  try  a  little 
sherry  while  we  are  waiting." 

The  wine  is  brought.  Mr.  Carstoe  contents 
himself  with  a  few  sips,  but  Darrell  drains  two 
glasses  of  the  bright,  golden  cordial  in  rapid 
succession — drinks  another  as  hastily  when  Mr. 
Carstoe  stands  by  the  fire  with  his  back  toward 
him. 

Mr.  Carstoe's  meditations  are  naturally  not 
of  the  brightest.  This  recent  loss  is  scarcely  cal- 
culated to  raise  his  spirits.  But  life  has  been 
too  hard  for  him  to  be  greatly  astonished  or  cast 
down  by  any  new  trouble. 

"  It  is  just  what  I  might  have  expected  would 
happen,"  he  has  said  to  Vaughan  more  than  once 
during  the  past  few  days.  "That  money — for 
the  diamonds  were  as  good  as  money — would 
have  started  me  afresh  in  the  world.  I  meant 
to  buy  up  those  loose  lands  about  Mumford's 
Hollow,  and  in  two  years  I  should  have  been  a 
rich  man." 

Probably  he  is  going  over  a  train  of  similar 
thought  now,  perhaps  contrasting  his  compan- 
ion's position  with  his  own,  as  he  knocks  the 
toe  of  his  boot  against  the  low  fender,  glances 
about  the  handsomely  appointed  room,  and  says 
moodily — 

"And  there  are  people  who  don't  believe  in 
luck  :  why,  if  you're  not  born  with  it,  life  is  about 
as  easy  as  climbing  up  a  wall  without  any  chinks 
between  the  stones." 

Vaughan  laughs  at  the  odd  comparison,  but  it 
is  neither  a  hard  nor  an  unsympathizing  laugh. 

"It  is  never  too  late  for  luck  to  turn,"  he  re- 
plies, coming  up  to  the  fire.  "You're  a  good 
fellow,  Carstoe,  and  I've  taken  an  immense  fan- 
cy to  you.  I  know  my  uncle  liked  you.'' 


ME.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIE. 


19 


"  Well,  I  never  knew  any  body's  liking  to  do 
me  any  great  amount  of  good,"  observes  Mr. 
Carstoe,  candidly.  "Still,  I  own  I  am  glad  to 
have  it ;  and  I  can  say  for  your  late  uncle  that, 
though  he  was  a  difficult  man,  he  paid  well,  and 
did  justice  to  one's  attempts  to  do  one's  work. " 

"And  as  far  as  that  last  goes,  you  shall  find 
his  nephew  resembles  him,"  says  Darrell,  hold- 
ing out  his  hand.  "  I've  not  said  much — words 
are  poor  things — but  I'm  deucedly  cut  up  about 
your  misfortune,  and —  Ah,  here's  Tony  to  an- 
nounce dinner ;  well,  we'll  feed-  first  and  talk  it 
over  afterward." 

They  dine  exceedingly  well,  and  Vaughan 
presses  many  varieties  of  generous  wines  upon 
his  guest.  By  the  time  the  meal  is  over  and 
they  sit  alone  near  the  fire  again,  with  their  ci- 
gars lighted,  Mr.  Carstoe  is  much  more  cheerful 
and  talkative  than  usual.  He  has  reasons  be- 
yond the  effects  of  claret  and  champagne  for 
this  change.  Darrell  Vaughan  has  offered  him 
the  agency  of  all  the  Californian  property,  from 
the  unopened  mining  tracts  to  the  lands  in  several 
growing  towns — offered  not  only  a  generous  sala- 
ry, but  percentages  so  large  that  a  new  career,  the 
certainty  of  a  moderate  fortune,  presents  itself 
suddenly  to  the  eyes  of  the  world-buffeted  man. 
They  talk  a  great  deal  about  the  business ;  they 
talk  of  the  late  uncle,  whose  memory  Mr.  Car- 
stoe holds  in  affectionate  reverence.  They 
speak,  too,  of  another  matter  connected  with  the 
will,  and  of  the  person  whom  it  affects.  This 
is  Launcelot  Cromlin,  DarreU's  cousin.  When  a 
boy  he  had  been  a  favorite  with  his  uncle.  Five 
years  previous,  a  youth  of  one-and-twenty  at 
the  time,  Launce  Cromlin  fell  under  the  suspi- 
cion of  a  terrible  deed.  Mr.  Vaughan  had  been 
spending  the  snmmer  in  Vermont  on  account  of 
his  health.  His  two  nephews  had  visited  him 
there  in  turn.  Early  in  the  autumn  Launce 
was  going  to  Europe  to  pursue  his  art  studies. 
When  the  young  man's  birthday  arrived,  Mr. 
Vaughan  sent  him  a  check  for  fifteen  hundred 
dollars.  It  was  months  before  the  old  gentle- 
man saw  this  check  again  ;  when  it  came  back 
the  amount  had  been  altered  to  fifteen  thousand 
dollars,  and  on  the  back  was  an  indorsement 
signed  by  Cromlin,  making  the  check  payable  to 
the  bearer. 

Launce  was  in  Europe.  Mr.  Vaughan  made 
inquiries  of  the  bank-teller,  but  not  in  a  way  to 
excite  suspicion.  The  teller  was  positive  that 
Mr.  Cromlin  had  presented  the  draft  in  person. 
He  recollected  Cromlin  saying  he  had  been  out 
of  town,  and  expected  to  send  the  paper  by  a 
friend  to  be  cashed,  but  had  himself  returned. 

Mr.  Vaughan  was  a  secretive,  proud  man — ter- 
ribly suspicious  too ;  for  he  had  suffered  much 
from  the  treachery  of  several  persons  whom  he 
had  best  loved.  He  kept  the  discovery  from  ev- 
ery body  but  Darrell,  whom  he  liked,  though 
this  nephew  had  never  been  so  dear  to  him  as 


Launce.  Apparently  Launce  had  hoped  the  in- 
dorsement would  persuade  his  uncle  that  the 
check  had  passed  through  other  hands,  thus  re- 
lieving him  from  suspicion. 

In  his  brief  letter  to  Cromlin,  Mr.  Vaughan 
did  not  even  state  the  reasons  which  led  him  to 
disown  and  fairly  curse  the  youth  he  had  loved 
so  tenderly.  Epistles  came  from  Launce ;  they 
were  returne"1  -aopened.  Darrell  naturally  paid 
no  attention  to  the  appeals  which  his  cousin 
addressed  to  him,  begging  to  be  told  what  had 
caused  this  change  in  his  uncle. 

Tartly  on  account  of  his  health,  partly  because 
familiar  haunts  had  grown  hateful  in  his  grief 
and  increased  misanthropy,  Mr.  Vaughan  went 
to  California,  where  he  owned  an  extensive  prop- 
erty. He  divided  his  time  between  San  Fran- 
cisco and  Moysterville,  only  once  revisiting  the 
Atlantic  States  about  a  year  before  his  death. 

Some  two  weeks  previous  to  Mr.  Vaughan's 
decease,  a  lawyer  friend  in  New  York,  to  whom 
during  that  last  visit  the  old  man  had  commu- 
nicated the  secret,  sent  him  a  statement  of  facts, 
which,  though  they  did  not  clear  up  the  mystery, 
were  proofs  to  Mr.  Vaughan  that  Cromlin  had 
been  the  victim  of  fraud  and  treachery.  For 
weeks  before  and  after  the  presentation  of  the 
check  Laiince  had  lain  in  bed  helpless  from  a 
fracture  of  the  right  arm.  Besides  this,  it  had 
been  recently  discovered  that  a  systematic  series 
of  thefts  had  been  long  carried  on  by  the  teller 
and  cashier  of  the  bank.  Both  men  were  since 
fugitives  from  justice,  and  it  was  probable  that 
the  teller,  at  least,  had  had  a  share  in  the  crime 
until  now  ascribed  to  Cromlin. 

Launce  had  never  returned  to  America.  He 
had  lived  upon  the  limited  income  inherited  from 
his  father  and  pursued  ifis  art  studies.  After 
those  first  efforts  at  reconciliation  the  haughty 
family  spirit  had  risen,  and  he  attempted  noth- 
ing further.  He  and  Darrell  had  met  once  in 
Europe,  but  Darrell  gave  him  no  clew  to  the 
cause  of  their  uncle's  conduct,  though  he  prom- 
ised to  tell  their  relative  how  honorable  and 
straightforward  Launce's  life  was,  and  do  his  best 
to  end  the  estrangement. 

When  the  news  came  which  convinced  Mr. 
Vaughan  he  had  wronged  his  nephew,  he  wrote 
to  his  lawyer  friend  in  New  York,  inclosing  a 
letter  to  be  forwarded  to  Launce.  There  must 
be  some  means  of  discovering  the  young  man's 
European  address,  and  he  begged  piteously  that 
his  friend  would  act  with  the  utmost  dispatch ; 
he  wanted  to  see  his  boy  again.  But  all  the  law- 
yer could  discover  was  the  name  of  a  London 
House  to  whom  letters  were  forwarded  by 
Launce's  bankers  in  New  York.  So  Mr.  Sand- 
ford  sent  the  epistle  to  them,  and  wrote  to  Mr. 
Vaughan  that  he  had  done  so,  proposing  to  dis- 
patch an  agent  to  Europe  in  search  of  Cromlin, 
but  when  his  response  reached  California  Mr. 
Vaughan  was  dead. 


20 


MB.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


After  the  old  gentleman  became  convinced  of 
Launce's  innocence,  he  told  the  whole  story  to 
Mr.  Carstoe, bitterly  lamenting  the  injury  he  had 
done  bis  boy.  Mr.  Carstoe  was  aware  that  the 
fortune  had  been  left  to  Darrell,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  small  bequest  (provisional  in  a  certain 
way),  which  even  in  his  wrath  he  could  not  for- 
bear allotting  his  former  favorite.  But  from  his 
conversation,  Carstoe  supposed  that  on  the  re- 
ceipt of  this  news  he  had  changed  his  will,  and 
divided  his  wealth  equally  between  his  nephews. 
He  knew  that  on  the  very  day  the  tidings  came. 
Mr.  Vaughan  was  closeted  for  hours  with  his 
lawyer,  John  Smith.  The  next  day  but  one  Mr. 
Smith  was  sent  for  again,  and  this  time  it  was 
to  add  a  codicil  to  the  will,  and  that  codicil 
Vaughan  read  to  Mr.  Carstoe  after  he  and  the 
housekeeper  had  witnessed  it,  and  the  lawyer  was 
gone.  It  was  an  odd,  romantic  codicil  enough, 
but  in  keeping  with  Mr.  Vanghan's  peculiar 
character  and  theories ;  and,  indeed,  that  night, 
talking  to  Carstoe  more  freely  than  he  had  ever 
before  done,  he  told  him  enough  of  his  own  past 
to  account  for  the  whim. 

After  Mr.  Vaughan 's  death,  to  the  law-agent's 
astonishment,  the  original  will  was  found,  with 
the  codicil  attached.  Mr.  Carstoe  was  utterly 
confounded.  The  only  solution  to  the  mystery 
seemed  that  Edgar  Vanghan  had  composed  the 
codicil  when  his  feelings  changed  toward  Crom- 
lin,  but  that  he  had  put  off,  as  men  so  often  do, 
the  alteration  in  his  testament  until  too  late. 
Darrell  inherited  the  fortune,  with  the  exception 
of  ten  thousand  dollars  bequeathed  to  Launce. 
Darrell  was  to  pay  the  whole  amount  to  his 
cousin  if  he  found  the  young  man  behaving  well ; 
if  not,  he  was  to  retain  the  principal,  and  pay  an 
annual  interest  counted  at  ten  per  cent.  But 
evdB  this  interest  was  to  be  withheld  for  five 
years  if  Darrell  became  convinced  that  Cromlin 
would  only  squander  it  in  dissipation.  So  to- 
night the  conversation  between  the  two  men  gets 
round  to  Launce  Cromlin,  and  the  strange  stip- 
ulation in  the  codicil  concerning  a  certain  por- 
tion of  the  property. 

"Your  cousin  is  an  artist,  I  think,"  Mr.Car- 
stoe  says. 

"He  dreams  of  being  one,"  replies  Darrell, 
with  a  shrug;  "whether  he  will  ever  do  more 
than  dream  is  doubtful.  I  saw  him  about  two 
years  since  in  Europe — an  agreeable  fellow  — 
clever,  too ;  but  I  am  afraid  not  a  man  to  trust. " 

"  Indeed !  And  did  you  talk  over  that  affair  ? 
It  seems  so  odd,  since  he  was  innocent,  that  he 
never  tried  to  clear  himself." 

"  I  knew  nothing  about  the  matter  then  ;  my 
uncle  never  told  me  a  word  till  he  chose  to 
think  he  had  proofs  that  Launce  was  not  guilty." 

Mr.  Carstoe  wonders  how  he  could  have  been 
so  mistaken  ;  he  thought  Mr.  Vaughan  had  told 
him  that  Darrell  knew  all  from  the  first. 

'•  W.,-11,"  he  says,  "  when  the  poor  fellow  gets 


our  letters  he  will  be  glad  to  know  that  the  af- 
fair was  cleared  up  before  his  uncle's  death." 

"  Glad  to  know  that  my  uncle  was  convinced, " 
amends  Darrell ;  "  real  proofs  of  Launce's  inno- 
cence he  never  had." 

"  But  you  have  no  doubt  ?" 

"I  can't  tell ;  I  want  to  like  Launce  ;  I  mean 
I  want  to  believe  in  him — like  him  I  do.  Now 
about  the  will  itself.  You  believe  that  my  uncle 
meant  to  make  another  ?" 

"Yes,  as  I  told  you,"  Mr.  Carstoe  replies, 
firmly. 

"I  shall  act,"  says  Dan-ell,  "as  I  think  my 
uncle  would  like  to  have  me.  To  divide  the 
fortune  equally  would  not  be  fair,  for  the  foun- 
dation of  a  good  deal  of  it  was  laid  by  my  fa- 
ther." 

This  is  news  also  to  Mr.  Carstoe,  but  he  can 
not  doubt  the  fact. 

"You  will  behave  rightly,  I  am  sure,"  he  an- 
swers. 

"The  ten  thousand  dollars  he  will  lune  at 
once,"  pursues  Darrell.  "If  I  find  him  steady, 
hard-working,  trying  to  atone  for  past  errors,  I 
will  make  that  sum  a  hundred  thousand.  More 
than  that  I  know  my  uncle  would  not  have  done." 

Mr.  Carstoe  feels,  and  says  truly,  that  under 
the  circumstances  few  men  would  do  so  much. 
The  declaration  might  sound  less  generous  if  he 
were  acquainted  with  Launcelot  Cromlin ;  he 
would  then  be  aware  that  there  is  not  a  possi- 
bility of  Launce's  listening  to  such  an  offer. 

"  He  has  still  another  opportunity,"  continues 
Darrell,  with  a  smile.  "If  he  succeeds  in  win- 
ning Miss  Elizabeth  Crauford's  hand,  he  will  in- 
herit the  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dol- 
lars of  Eastern  bonds  and  stocks  that  the  codicil 
awards  to  whichever  of  us  two  may  gain  her  fa- 
vor." 

"It  was  a  romantic  sort  of  thing  for  a  busi- 
ness man  to  hatch,"  Carstoe  replies;  "but  Mr. 
Vaughan  was  very  odd.  He  had  once  cared  for 
the  young  lady's  mother.  He  talked  freely  with 
me  during  that  last  fortnight,  though  I  had  al- 
ways thought  him  a  very  secretive,  silent  man ; 
but  you  often  notice  these  changes  toward  the 
end.  He  read  me  the  codicil  after  Smith  had 
gone,  and  talked  a  great  deal  about  Launce  Crom- 
lin— about  his  own  past  too." 

"Yes,"  from  Darrell. 

Mr.  Carstoe  had  given  every  one  of  these  de- 
tails weeks  ago,  on  the  night  of  Darrell's  arrival, 
while  Mr.  Vaughan  was  still  alive,  but  Darrell 
has  a  certain  pleasure  in  hearing  them  again. 

"How  odd  that  he  should  have  outlived  Smith, 
after  all.  He  was  so  frail  and  miserable,  and 
Smith  looked  such  a  tower  of  strength.  I  re- 
member Mr.  Vaughan 's  saying  to  him  in  his 
caustic  way, '  You  look  so  disgustingly  well  and 
strong,  Smith,  it's  fairly  insulting.'" 

Mr.  Carstoe  rubs  his  hands  together,  and 
shakes  his  head. 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


21 


"And  poor  Smith  was  killed  the  very  day  of 
my  uncle's  paralytic  stroke,"  says  Darrell. 

"  The  very  day !  Thrown  from  his  horse,  and 
picked  up  with  his  neck  broken,"  returns  Mr. 
Carstoe,  opening  his  hands  wide  and  bringing 
them  together  again  with  energy.  "It  is  odd 
how  we  go — very  odd." 

"  Yes,"  once  more — an  assent  this  time. 

"  I  had  gone  away  two  days  before  on  bus- 
iness," pursues  Mr.  Carstoe,  in  a  low  voice. 
"When  I  got  back,  Smith  was  dead  and  your 
poor  uncle  little  better."  He  sits  silent  for  a 
while,  then  speaks  again,  to  get  rid  of  this  mourn- 
ful train  of  thought.  ' '  You  will  see  your  cousin 
in  New  York  ?" 

"If  he  is  there  I  shall." 

"  Oh,  he'll  come  as  soon  as  our  letters  reach 
him.  I  lost  no  time,  as  you  directed,  in  writing 
about  the  legacy  and  the  codicil.  If  he  is  in 
Europe,  those  bankers  whose  address  you  gave 
me  will  forward  the  letters  at  once. " 

"Naturally,"  replies  Darrell. 

"And  about  your  own  chance.  You  don't 
mean  to  let  your  cousin  take  it  by  default?" 
asks  Mr.  Carstoe,  slyly. 

"  I  shall  never  sell  myself  for  money,"  re- 
turns Vaughan,  quietly.  "I  never  saw  Miss 
Crauford.  I  should  be  certain  to  dislike  her. 
Let  Master  Launce  win  her  and  the  fortune,  if 
he  can." 

"If  neither  succeed,  the  whole  goes  to  a  char- 
ity," pursues  Mr.  Carstoe ;  "  to  a  charity,"  mov- 
ing his  finger  slowly,  as  if  reading  the  conditions 
of  the  codicil  in  the  embers. 

"Better,  perhaps,  for  the  young  lady  and 
Launce  Cromlin  too." 

"Then  you  put  yourself  quite  out  of  the  ques- 
tion ?" 

"  I  don't  like  that  mixing  up  of  romance  and 
business.  I  told  you  I  should  be  sure  to  hate 
her,"  replies  Vaughan. 

Tony  brings  in  coffee  and  cura9oa  and  kirsch- 
wasser.  Darrell  makes  his  guest  taste  both  liq- 
uids. He  always  likes  to  feel  his  power,  no  mat- 
ter how  trifling  the  thing  in  which  it  is  shown. 
He  has  pleasure  in  forcing  his  abstemious  com- 
panion slightly  to  muddle  himself;  he  enjoys 
seeing  that  the  steadiest  person  has  his  weak- 
nesses. Mr.  Carstoe  is  a  wonderfully  temperate 
man  for  California,  but  a  little  excess  is  excusa- 
ble to-night.  Since  the  loss  of  the  diamonds  he 
has  thought  himself  on  the  verge  of  ruin,  until 
Vaughan's  generous  proposals  at  dinner  cleared 
the  way  to  comfort  and  a  competency.  It  is  not 
surprising  that  he  should  be  pleased  and  excited 
enough  to  forget  somewhat  his  customary  pru- 
dence under  his  host's  persuasions.  He  is  by 
no  means  intoxicated ;  his  brain  is  quickened, 
his  thoughts  come  rapidly,  he  feels  in  a  talkative 
mood,  and  very  happy — that  is  all.  He  has  not 
forgotten  the  business  either ;  he  begins  discuss- 
ing what  wonders  can  be  done  with  the  mining 


tract  and  the  "town  lots"  in  the  new  villages, 
but  Vaughan  does  not  want  to  talk  business. 

"Time  enough  while  we  are  going  down  to 
San  Francisco  to  arrange  these  affairs,"  he  says. 
"  Besides,  I  shall  stay  theije  for  a  few  days." 

"I  shall  come  back  as  soon  as  I  have  attend- 
ed to  your  matters  there,"  Mr.  Carstoe  replies. 
"  But  one  thing — about  this  house — what  do  you 
mean  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"  Sell  it  when  there  is  a  chance ;  in  the  mean 
time  you  can  look  about  for  a  good  tenant  or 
purchaser. " 

"  Then  you'll  not  live  in  California  ?" 

"I!"  He  utters  the  monosyllable  in  a  tone 
of  disdainful  surprise,  but  changes  his  voice  as 
he  adds — "  No ;  I  may  go  abroad  for  a  time,  but 
New  York  is  my  home." 

' '  And  you  have  already  made  a  start  in  pol- 
itics ;  think  of  having  been  a  Congressman  at 
your  age!"  exclaims  Mr.  Carstoe,  in  an  admir- 
ing tone.  He  looks  at  the  handsome,  elegant 
fellow  who,  still  under  thirty,  has  wealth  and 
honors  in  his  grasp,  and  wonders  why  human 
destinies  differ  so.  He  remembers  when  he  too 
was  young,  and  had  hopes  and  aspirations ;  but 
they  have  been  dead  so  many  years  now  that  even 
their  ghosts  have  almost  ceased  to  haunt  him. 

Darrell  Vaughan  is  one  of  those  men  who 
could  drink  a  whole  dinner-party  under  the  table 
without  showing  signs  of  being  affected  by  his 
potations.  To-night  he  has  an  unusual  craving 
for  stimulants — a  desire  for  companionship  too. 
He  keeps  Mr.  Carstoe  until  very  late.  He  or- 
ders materials  for  hot  punch,  and  will  not  spare 
his  guest.  Such  murderous  hospitality  is  too 
common  in  California  for  Mr.  Carstoe  to  he  sur- 
prised, but  he  can  not  resist  Vaughan's  entreaties 
as  he  is  in  the  habit  of  doing  those  of  other  men. 
This  young  fellow  has  a  rare  gift  of  fascination 
about  him,  to  which  Mr.  Carstoe  yields  as  readily 
as  do  most  people.  Brief  as  their  acquaintance 
is,  Vaughan  has  assumed  a  complete  ascendency 
over  him ;  yet  the  lawyer  is  not  an  impressiona- 
ble person. 

Darrell  talks  in  his  turn,  brilliantly,  dashingly, 
in  terse,  quick  periods,  which  show  talent,  care- 
ful thought  and  study  too,  easily  and  naturally 
as  he  converses.  He  enjoys  drawing  out  his  vis- 
itor. Mr.  Carstoe  is  no  ordinary  business-hack ; 
there  are  all  sorts  of  odd  corners  and  quaint  ideas 
in  that  mind  long  accustomed  to  the  depressing 
influence  of  business  drudgery.  Vaughan  brings 
these  forth  successfully ;  he  hears  about  the  old 
hopes  and  struggles ;  old  loves  and  disappoint- 
ments too ;  and  is  interested,  even  while  he  feels 
a  certain  contempt  for  this  man  who  had  the 
making  of  so  much  in  his  disposition,  and  yet 
has  never  succeeded  in  raising  his  life  beyond  a 
dull,  commonplace  failure.  Of  politics,  of  pro- 
fessions they  talk — of  women  too ;  for  Vaughan, 
who  must  always  study  somebody,  is  curious  to 
know  what  creeds  or  ideas  are  in  the  man's 


MR.  VAUG  HAN'S  HEIR. 


brain.  But  this  last  discussion  brings  to  Mr. 
Carstoe's  mind  the  events  of  the  day — events 
from  which  Darrell  has  hitherto  kept  the  con- 
versation aloof. 

Mr.  Carstoe  shudders.  He  knows  that  it  was 
right  the  woman  should  suffer  the  consequences 
of  her  guilt,  be  shut  up  beyond  the  possibility  of 
continuing  her  evil  career;  but  to  be  forced  to 
bring  the  charge,  to  follow  up  the  process,  has 
been  the  hardest  task  he  ever  undertook.  Lost, 
abandoned  as  the  woman  is,  he  has  pitied  her 
from  the  first.  Nothing  but  necessity,  the  sense 
that  it  is  right  and  just,  has  carried  him  through. 

"I  hope  such  a  thing  will  never  happen  to  me 
again,"  he  says  suddenly.  "But  I  could  not 
act  otherwise — I  could  not.'' 

"You  are  somewhat  excited  still,"  Vaughan 
replies  coldly.  "  You  could  not  condone  crime ; 
we  have  gone  over  all  that  often  enough." 

"Yes,"  sighs  Mr.  Carstoe.  Then  a  pause, 
after  which  he  adds — "There  is  some  mystery 
under  it  all  that  we  shall  never  understand. 
Mrs.  Simpson  says  she  did  come  twice  to  see 
your  uncle — was  with  him  when  he  had  the  fit. " 

Vaughan  is  lighting  a  fresh  cigar;  when  he 
has  succeeded,  he  puffs  out  a  graceful  column 
of  smoke,  and  says  quietly — 

"No  doubt  there  was  an  intention  to  make 
some  great  haul  like  that  at  Sacramento.  Peo- 
ple here  had  better  take  care.  Milady  was  prob- 
ably only  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  those 
men.  It  might  not  have  been  legal,  but  they'd 
much  better  have  kept  her  from  trial  on  condi- 
tion that  she  exposed  the  whole." 

"  It  was  your  telling  the  judge  of  catching  her 
about  the  house  after  your  uncle's  death  which 
got  her  so  long  a  punishment. " 

••  Perhaps;  it  was  my  duty  though,"  replies 
I>ar>cll.  "Ten  years!  Ten  years  is  a  long 
time,  Cars  toe!" 

Mr.  Carstoe  assents  in  a  troubled  way  to  this 
>elf-evident  proposition. 

"  Especially  when  one  must  pass  them  in 
prison,"  adds  Vaughan. 

Again  Mr,  Carstoe  shivers  as  he  answers.  He 
could  almost  think  there  is  a  harsh,  triumphant 
ring  in  the  young  man's  voice;  but  when  he 
looks  up,  Darrell  is  leaning  his  hend  on  his  hand 
and  gazing  wearily  into  the  fire.  From  first  to 
l.i>t  he  has  been  very  kind,  and  shown  a  humane 
interest  in  the  poor  wretch.  Mr.  Carstoe  feels 
a  pang  of  self-reproach  that  he  can  for  an  instant 
have  fancied  there  is  any  thing  hard  or  cruel 
about  his  engaging  companion. 

Vaughan  drinks  more  punch,  and  Mr.  Carstoe 
«ith  difficulty  escapes  imbibing  another  glass, 
which  he  feels  would  npset  him  entirely.  lie 
look*  at  his  watch,  pleads  the  lateness  of  the 
hour,  and  suggests  the  propriety  of  a  sober  busi- 
nm  nut  11  getting  home  and  to  bed  without  delav. 

"Nonsense,"  says  Vaughan,  "you  can't  go 
back  to-njght,  J'd  have  the  trap  out,  only  ilie 


sen-ants  would  hate  me  forever.  You  mnst 
stop  here.  I  told  Mrs.  Simpson  to  get  a  bed 
ready." 

Mr.  Carstoe  is  quite  overcome  by  this  last 
touch  of  friendly  attention.  He  feels  that  Dar- 
rell Vaughan  is  a  man  to  work  for,  stand  by,  die 
for  if  need  be!  Punch  and  gratitude  render  Mr. 
Carstoe  fairly  heroic  in  his  sentiments. 

"They've  given  you  the  room  next  mine,'' 
pursues  the  host,  finishing  his  glass.  "This 
house  is  a  gloomy  old  barrack  at  the  best.  I'm 
glad  of  society. " 

He  moves  impatiently,  and  stirs  the  embers 
into  a  flame.  It  occurs  to  Mr.  Carstoe  that,  in 
spite  of  his  energy  and  vitality,  this  young 
Vaughan  is  a  very  nervous  man  —  any  great 
strain  now  or  sharp  illness  would  tell  terribly  on 
him.  Darrell  begins  laughing  and  jesting  again, 
and  the  guest  forgets  his  thought.  He  has  not 
seen  his  companion  so  gay  before;  Vaughan  has 
been  greatly  affected  by  his  uncle's  death,  and 
during  the  first  days  did  nothing  but  lament  his 
own  dilatoriness  in  not  coming  before.  Those 
self-reproaches  have  placed  him  on  a  high  pin- 
nacle in  the  minds  of  the  dignitaries  of  M»yster- 
ville.  They  do  not  believe  them  deserved  ;  but 
have  given  him  great  credit  therefor.  Old  Mr. 
Vaughan  was  a  reticent,  moody  man,  who  liked 
to  be  alone ;  even  the  nephew  whom  he  loved 
could  not  intrude  upon  him  unasked.  Darrell 
has  made  this  known  too ;  but  he  has  reproached 
himself  all  the  same,  and  Moysterville  admires 
him,  and  will  long  talk  of  his  behavior — so  fit- 
ting, "so  sweetly  melancholy,"  the  ladies  at  the 
court  end  pronounce  it,  and  other  people  say  the 
same. 

Vaughan  himself  shows  his  visitor  up-stairs  ; 
bids  him  not  take  pains  to  be  quiet,  because  he 
likes  to  know  there  is  some  living  thing  near  be- 
sides the  rats,  and  is  amusing  and  agreeable  to 
the  last.  He  is  in  his  own  room  at  length;  but, 
instead  of  going  to  bed,  he  throws  himself  on  a 
sofa,  and  lies  staring  at  the  shaded  light.  His 
lips  move  occasionally,  and  if  there  is  anv  spirit 
listener  bending  over  him  unseen,  these  are  the 
words  that  ghostly  visitant  must  catch — "Ten 
years — ten  years." 

Sometimes  there  is  the  hard  ring  of  triumph, 
which  for  an  instant  surprised  Mr.  Carstoe  in 
his  voice ;  sometimes  a  weariness  and  unrest ; 
but  he  says  the  words  over  and  over. 

Then  he  rises ;  goes  to  a  dressing-case,  un- 
locks it,  and  takes  out  a  tiny  box — a  box  that 
holds  a  quantity  of  greenish  pills.  He  swallows 
three  of  these,  and,  since  sleep  will  not  come, 
sits  down  at  his  writing-table  while  waiting  for 
the  hasheesh  to  do  its  work  of  bringing  up  a 
pleasant  vision. 

He  turns  over  certain  papers,  among  them  a 
letter  from  his  uncle  to  Robert  Crauford— a  let- 
ter in  which  are  detailed  the  conditions  of  that 
odd  codicil.  Whichever  of  his  nephews  wins 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


23 


the  hand  of  his  old  friend's  daughter  will  claim 
the  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  ex- 
empted from  the  rest  of  his  fortune. 

The  letter  to  apprise  Launce  Cromlin  of  this 
bequest  is  on  its  way  to  Kew  York,  but  as 
Launce  is  terribly  careless  in  the  matter  of  ad- 
dresses, it  is  likely  to  lie  a  long  time  unclaimed. 

Vaughan  still  sits  at  the  table,  but  the  po- 
tion has  begun  its  work.  The  walls  expand;  the 
room  stretches  into  space.  Bright  tints  and 
colors  float  about ;  his  physical  frame  seems  to 
lose  its  density,  and  to  drift  up— up  toward  the 
radiant  gleams.  Sounds  of  music  are  in  his 
ears.  He  knows  what  is  coming — that  glorious 
vision  of  an  Eastern  scene— palm-trees— desert 
sands — enchanted  cities  in  the  distance — gold- 
en rivers— amber  skies— heavenly  shapes.  He 
keeps  full  possession  of  his  identity ;  he  has 
learned  so  to  graduate  the  dose  that  he  can  do 
this — knows  what  amount  will  serve  to  make  his 
speech  eloquent,  bring  glowing  visions  or  pass- 
ing forgetfulness,  as  he  lists.  To-night  he  wants 
the  vision,  and  it  is  near ;  the  stately  music  al- 
ways announces  its  approach.  Suddenly  there 
is  a  jar,  a  break — a  discord  in  the  grand  diapa- 
son. The  vision  floats  slowly  up,  and  fills  the 
immeasurable  space ;  but,  horrible,  it  is  only  the 
hot  court-room,  the  eager  crowd,  the  crouching 
form  of  Milady,  that  present  themselves.  It  is 
the  first  time  the  spell  has  ever  failed ;  he  is  suf- 
ficiently conscious  to  struggle,  to  separate  reality 
from  the  dream. 

He  thrusts  the  papers  into  the  drawer,  closes 
the  desk,  flings  off  his  coat,  and  lies  down  on  the 
bed.  The  music  recommences — slowly,  stately 
— crash  after  crash  of  golden  harmony.  Great 
ivory  doors  swing  wide  —  he  is  entering  the 
charmed  realm.  He  can  not  move  now — can 
not  lift  a  finger ;  he  must  drift  on.  But  he  sees 
that  dwarfish  gnomes  guard  the  portals  instead 
of  the  radiant  forms  he  knows  as  well  as  the 
faces  of  his  most  familiar  friends.  The  Eastern 
scene  is  there  —  the  palms,  the  desert,  the  en- 
chanted city.  But  side  by  side,  jumbled  with 
the  vision  in  inextricable  confusion,  yet  apart 
from  it — a  sort  of  shadow,  though  full  of  awful 
reality — the  court-room,  the  crouching  figure, 
and  the  mighty  orchestra,  from  organ  tones  to 
voice  of  flute,  only  wails  and  echoes  that  dismal 
cry— "The  child!  oh,  God,  the  child!" 

Always  bound  hand  and  foot ;  no  more  able 
to  stir  than  if  his  frame  had  been  of  marble. 
Still  the  vision  sweeps  on,  beauty  and  its  dread- 
ful shadow  side  by  side.  Out  of  the  farther  past 
troop  shapes  and  memories.  Faces  and  voices 
which  perhaps  he  has  not  seen  or  heard  for  years 
— loves  and  hates  so  fierce  that  it  would  be  hard 
to  tell  which  were  the  most  cruel.  » 

But  whatever  he  sees  or  hears,  always  there 
comes  back  at  last  the  court-room,  the  crowd, 
and  Milady  crouching  there,  while  her  white  lips 
repeat  in  mockery  the  pet  name  of  other  days — 


the  name  to  which  she  has  clung  in  her  fall  and 
degradation,  perhaps  only  in  scorn  and  bitter- 
ness of  her  own  self,  but  clinging  to  it  stilL 

What  else  does  he  behold?  Always  the  palm- 
trees  and  the  broad  plains  with  their  magic  light, 
but  they  serve  merely  as  the  theatre  upon  which 
this  drama  of  recollection  plays  itself  out. 

Does  he  see  himself  arrived  in  Moysterville  ? 
Does  he  listen  again  to  the  frightened  sen-ants' 
account  of  the  paralysis  which  struck  his  uncle 
only  the  day  before,  after  receiving  a  visit  from 
a  stranger — a  wornan  ?  The  two  incidents  are 
not,  in  the  minds  of  the  speakers,  connected 
with  the  illness ;  but  they  relate  them  as  people, 
in  such  a  season  of  alarm,  laboriously  go  over 
the  slightest  events  that  immediately  precede 
the  disaster.  Does  he  hear  Mr.  Carstoe's  voice, 
with  its  piteous  croak — like  a  constant  lament 
over  life's  disappointments — relating,  also  on  the 
evening  of  his  arrival,  the  affair  of  the  codicil ; 
telling  him  of  the  lawyer's  death  ;  uncertain  of 
the  contents  of  the  will,  but  positive  as  to  the 
codicil? 

Does  he  see  himself,  two  nights  later,  in  the 
library,  secretly  searching  among  the  papers:* 
Does  he  read  again  the  revelations  which  caused 
so  horrible  a  shock  to  the  old  man  that  his  en- 
feebled frame  could  not  support  the  blow?  Is 
he  back  in  the  room  on  the  night  his  uncle  died, 
seeking  to  destroy  those  terrible  records  ? 

Does  he  see  suddenly  the  haggard  face  of 
Milady  rise  like  a  menacing  ghost?  Does  he 
despise  her  threats,  and  let  her  go?  Does  he 
wait  until  a  few  more  days  have  seen  the  old 
man  laid  in  his  grave,  to  find  the  strong  arm  of 
the  law  relieving  him  of  this  wretched  woman 
who  has  dared  to  threaten  him  in  her  madness  ? 
Does  he  see  himself  visiting  her  in  prison,  over- 
whelming her  by  the  one  plea  that  could  move 
her?  Does  he  hear  her  frantic  appeal — "The 
child  !  the  child  ?"  Does  he  go  over  again  the 
bestowal  upon  her  of  the  drug  which,  long  ago, 
she  learned  to  crave — the  drag  which  keeps  her 
in  a  state  of  semi -idiocy  up  to  the  very  hour  of 
the  trial — with  a  vague  fear  of  him  controlling 
her  always  and  sealing  her  lips,  though  her 
stupefied  mind  can  scarcely  realize  why,  until 
when  all  is  over,  and  the  dreadful  sentence  pro- 
nounced, memory  and  consciousness  break  forth 
anew  in  that  passionate  moan — "The  child!  the 
child!" 

Yes,  he  sees  it  all,  lives  it  all  over,  and  suf- 
fers— he  who,  in  his  normal  state,  has  so  slight 
capability  of  suffering.  He  writhes  and  moans, 
but  can  not  break  the  spell.  Then  a  great  dark- 
ness gathers  :  he  sinks  down  —  down.  The 
Eastern  plain  is  a  sea  of  blood.  Towers  and 
palm-trees  are  fiery  fountains  afar  off;  he  in 
the  dark ;  and  he  falls,  falls,  slowly,  slowly  down 
an  awful  height— down  a  terrible  eternity  into  a 
dull,  dead  insensibility,  which,  holds  no  thought, 
no  perception. 


MR  VAUGHAN'S  HEIK. 


But  the  morrow's  sun  has  risen.  Two  days 
come  and  go.  Mr.  Carstoe  and  Vanghan  are 
speeding  toward  h'an  Francisco.  Only  a  brief 
waiting  there,  and  he  is  on  the  great  steamer 
bound  homeward,  and,  once  arrived  at  the  great 
Atlantic  sea -port,  another  steamer  bears  him 
away  to  the  Old  World,  end  his  face  is  full  of  life 
and  hope,  and  the  past  is  as  dead  for  him  as  if 
it  had  never  existed. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IN    THE    GALLERY. 

MONSIEUR  LA  TOUR  had  come  to  pay  a 
morning  visit  to  his  affianced :  it  was  not  his 
habit  to  appear  until  the  afternoon,  but  he  was 
obliged  to  go  down  to  Geneva  to-day,  and 
Nathalie,  seized  by  one  of  her  sudden  caprices, 
had  ordered  him,  on  the  previous  night,  to  bring 
her  a  bouquet  of  flowers  before  his  departure. 

So  Monsieur  appeared  at  the  chalet  at  ten 
o'clock.  Madame  L'Estrange  was  not  yet  visi- 
ble, but  old  Susanne  played  propriety  during  the 
interview,  Madame  L'Estrange  being  fully  alive 
to  the  indecorum  of  a  young  lady's  receiving 
her  affianced  husband  alone.  The  coachman 
had  begged  permission  to  drive  on  to  Clarens 
while  Monsieur  paid  his  visit,  promising  faith- 
fully to  be  back  in  time  to  meet  the  boat. 

Nathalie  proved  so  teazing  and  capricious 
that  the  little  elderly  gentleman  spent  an  un- 
quiet half-hour.  Old  Susanne  was  cross  this 
morning,  and  with  reason,  for  in  the  middle  of 
the  night  Madame  had  been  attacked  with  one 
of  her  nervous  spasms,  and  insisted  on  Susanne's 
saying  a  score  of  long  prayers,  and  then,  relaps- 
ing from  piety  into  worldliness,  kept  her  till 
near  daylight  discussing  mundane  matters.  So 
Susanne,  feeling  at  war  with  the  human  race  in 
general,  suddenly  announced  that  it  was  almost 
time  for  the  boat,  and  informed  Monsieur,  with 
malicious  satisfaction,  that  the  carriage  had  not 
returned. 

"Yon  will  have  to  walk  to  the  landing,"  said 
Nathalie,  when  a  consultation  of  watches  and 
clocks  proved  that  Susanne  was  correct,  as  well 
as  ill-natured,  in  her  remark. 

"But  that  faithless  cocher — where  is  he?" 
moaned  Monsieur,  with  the  theatrical  gestures 
and  appearance  of  utter  despair  which,  like  the 
rest  of  his  countrymen,  he  displayed  on  every 
possible  occasion.  "  He  is  a  fiend— the  son  of 
a  demon  !  My  business  is  most  important !  I 
desire  to  go  by  the  boat— the  train  invariably 
causes  my  head  to  ache,  and  he  knows  it — the 
accursed  wretch  knows  it  well." 

"That  may  be;  but  if  Monsieur  waits  any 
longer  he  will  not  get  the  boat,  that  is  certain," 
pronounced  Susanne,  with  the  easy  familiarity 
of  a  French  domestic. 


Nathalie  clapped  her  hands  and  laughed,  and 
Monsieur  La  Tour  looked  at  her  over  his  spec- 
tacles with  mild  reproach. 

"  Mademoiselle  can  be  amused  at  my  perplex- 
ity !"  quavered  he. 

"Oh,  no,  Monsieur;  I  was  only  remembering 
that  not  to  reach  the  boat  would  give  me  the 
pleasure  of  your  society,"  returned  Nathalie,  ut- 
tering the  polite  falsehood  with  all  a  woman's — 
a  Frenchwoman's — glibness. 

"I  am  touched;  I  am  overwhelmed!"  cried 
Monsieur ;  for  Nathalie  did  not  treat  him  often 
enough  to  pretty  speeches  for  them  to  lose  their 
effect.  "  But,  mon  amie,  I  am  forced  to  go  to 
Geneva  to-day.  I  have  made  certain  business 
arrangements ;  I  desire  to  purchase — but  it  is 
needless  to  weary  you  with  explanations. " 

"Then  if  Monsieur  wishes  to  go  by  the  eleven 
o'clock  boat,  he  must  be  off,"  chanted  Susanne, 
monotonously.  Susanne  was  sleepy,  and  want- 
ed him  gone,  that  she  might  secure  a  little  doze 
before  it  was  time  to  dress  her  mistress. 

' '  We  shall  walk  a  little  way  with  you, "  Na- 
thalie said.  "  Come,  Susanne.  You  like  nn 
early  promenade,  Susanne ;  you  know  you  do. " 

Susanne  made  a  dissatisfied  grimace ;  but,  as 
refusal  was  out  of  the  question,  she  scorned  to 
offer  any  observation  whatever. 

The  three  set  off,  and  were  seen  by  Elizabeth 
Crauford,  who  had  left  the  house  to  enjoy  the 
delicious  morning.  Not  far  below  the  villa 
grounds  was  a  steep  hill  overhanging  the  road, 
walled  and  terraced  to  the  top,  with  vines  grow- 
ing on  the  terraces.  The  hill  made  part  of  a 
private  property ;  but  Elizabeth  had  walked  up 
a  side  road  which  gave  admittance  thereto,  and 
a  courteous  gardener  had  permitted  her  to  en- 
ter. She  had  strolled  on  to  the  brow  of  the 
hill,  and  seated  herself  in  a  summer-house  which 
commanded  a  lovely  view. 

Along  came  her  acquaintance  of  the  previous 
evening;  of  course  the  natty,  carefully  dressed 
little  man  by  her  side  was  Monsieur  La  Tour. 
Elizabeth  regarded  him  with  a  natural  womanly 
interest.  He  had  taken  off  his  hat  for  an  in- 
stant, and  she  could  see  his  wig  distinctly.  She 
turned,  with  as  natural  a  thrill  of  girlish  sympa- 
thy, to  look  at  Nathalie  walking  by  his  side, 
overtopping  him  somewhat,  lithe  and  graceful, 
her  hair  shining  like  gold  in  the  sun,  and  her 
face  brightened  by  its  most  mischievous  smile. 

They  were  just  under  the  hill  now — Elizabeth 
had  to  lean  forward  to  see  them.  Up  scuttled 
Susanne,  her  tall  Breton  cap  wavering  to  and  fro 
in  her  haste,  like  a  miniature  tower  shaking  in 
the  wind.  • 

"  The  boat !"  she  shrieked  ;   "the  boat !" 

"Just  heaven,  all  is  lost !"  groaned  Monsieur. 

Then  a  tableau.  Susanne  a  statue  of  re- 
proach and  self-satisfaction;  Monsieur  with  one 
hand  clutching  the  wig  which  he  did  not  dare  to 
pull,  his  spectacles  raised  to  the  heaven  he  had 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


25 


invoked ;  Nathalie  with  her  head  averted,  but 
her  countenance  brimful  of  mischief  and  enjoy- 
ment, plainly  visible  to  Elizabeth.  A  person  un- 
acquainted with  French  manners  might  have  sup- 
posed, from  the  melodramatic  attitudes  of  Mon- 
sieur and  the  old  woman,  that  some  terrible  catas- 
trophe had  occurred,  but  Miss  Crauford  felt  certain 
the  case  deserved  no  very  profound  sympathy. 

"  If  Monsieur  runs,  but  runs  very  fast,"  sug- 
gested Susanne,  suddenly  bursting  into  speech— 
"  the  boat  is  only  at  Clarens,  I  heard  the  whistle 
— Monsieur  might  catch  it  yet  at  the  lower  land- 
ing." 

"Ah,  do  try,"  cried  Nathalie.  "You  know 
the  motion  of  the  train  always  makes  you  ill, 
mon  ami." 

"I  shall  try,"  sighed  Monsieur.  •" Au  revoir, 
chere  Nathalie;  au  revoir." 

"Yes,  yes,  but  do  not  stop  to  kiss  my  hand ; 
vile,  vite"  pleaded  Nathalie. 

Monsieur  still  hesitated ;  he  had  no  fancy  for 
displaying  his  powers  of  rapid  locomotion  to  that 
audience. 

"The  whistle!"  cried  Susanne. 

"And  your  head — the  train  will  make  you 
ill!"  from  Nathalie. 

Away  bounded  poor  Monsieur,  as  an  elderly 
gazelle  might  bound ;  his  coat-tails  flew  out  like 
twin  banners  of  distress,  his  wig  bobbed  up  and 
down,  and  threatened  to  desert  him  utterly. 
Elizabeth  Crauford  leaned  back  in  her  seat  and 
laughed  silently ;  Susanne  watched  with  a  face 
divided  between  amusement  and  ill-temper;  and 
Nathalie  clapped  her  hands  and  danced. 

Monsieur's  style  of  racing  was  peculiar ;  those 
elderly  gazelle  bounds  seemed  more  like  ineffect- 
ual efforts  to  leap  up  an  imaginary  height  than 
well-directed  attempts  to  reach  a  goal  lying  far 
down  the  smooth,  curving  road.  Full  five  min- 
utes of  that  gazelle  business  ensued,  yet  Monsieur 
•was  not  a  hundred  yards  away.  Another  scream 
from  Susanne — 

"The  boat!  the  boat!" 

A  burst  of  laughter  from  Nathalie,  echoed  by 
sounds  of  merriment  from  Miss  Crauford's  re- 
treat, a  groan  from  Monsieur,  and  a  cessation  of 
the  mad  bounds.  He  stood  for  a  few  instants 
watching  the  boat  as  she  swept  down  the  bay- 
like  curve,  then  walked  slowly  back,  wiping  his 
forehead  with  his  handkerchief,  speechless  be- 
tween annoyance  and  exhaustion. 

"You  must  wait  till  to-morrow,"  was  Natha- 
lie's first  remark. 

"I  have  business  —  I  shall  go  to-day,"  re- 
turned Monsieur ;  and  though  his  voice  sounded 
like  the  expiring  wheeze  of  a  broken  bellows, 
the  words  expressed  a  firm  resolve  to  do  his 
duty,  though  he  perished  in  the  attempt. 

"There  is  a  train  at  half-past  eleven,"  chant- 
ed Susanne,  in  her  shrill  tones. 

"We  will  walk  to  the  station  with  you," 
Nathalie  said. 


"You  are  very  good — always,"  sighed  Mon- 
sieur, displaying  a  spirit  of  forgiveness  which 
ought  to  have  overwhelmed  the  naughty  sprite 
with  remorse,  but  produced  no  effect  whatever. 

"Madame  will  want  me,"  put  in  Susanne 
crossly,  her  last  hope  of  getting  a  half-hour's 
peaceful  slumber  destroyed  by  this  cruel  pro- 
posal on  Nathalie's  part. 

"Mamma  will  not  rise  till  noon;  she  never 
does,"  said  the  girl.  "  Susanne,  I  suspect  you 
of  some  dark  design !  There  must  be  a  man  in 
the  case,  or  you  would  not  be  so  insane  to  get 
back  to  the  house. " 

"For  shame,  Mademoiselle  —  before  Mon- 
sieur !"  grumbled  Susanne,  yet  secretly  pleased 
at  the  idea  that  such  notions  could  still  be  im- 
puted to  her.  "  What  will  Monsieur  think  ?" 

"Monsieur  will  think  whatever  I  bid  him," 
cried  Nathalie.  "  Is  it  not  so,  mon  ami?  Poor 
dear !  how  warm  he  is — ah !  it  is  too  bad !" 

She  seized  his  handkerchief,  and  actually 
wiped  his  forehead.  Monsieur  was  so  overcome 
by  her  goodness  that  he  could  only  gasp. 

"Bah,  it  smells  of  snuff !"  exclaimed  Natha- 
lie, suddenly  thrusting  the  handkerchief  into  his 
hand.  "Allans!  It  is  fortunate  this  train  stops 
at  Burier." 

Burier  was  a  little  station  just  back  of  the  hill 
where  Elizabeth  Crauford  sat,  only  a  few  min- 
utes' walk  from  the  high-road.  Nathalie  danced 
along  by  Monsieur's  side,  and  Susanne  followed 
in  grim  silence ;  but  her  faded  lips  moved,  and 
it  was  evident  from  the  expression  of  her  coun- 
tenance that  she  was  not  calling  down  blessings 
on  the  heads  of  her  mistress  and  her  mistress's 
betrothed  husband. 

"I  forgot"  —  Monsieur  stopped  short  as  he 
spoke,  and  once  more  despair  darkened  his  heat- 
ed countenance — "I  have  not  my  paletot  and 
my  sac  de  voyaye — both  in  the  carriage.  Ah, 
that  fiendish  man !" 

"Well,  there  he  comes  now,"  called  Susanne, 
who  seemed  the  goddess  of  discovery  in  person 
this  morning. 

Sure  enough,  now  that  it  was  too  late,  the 
carriage  appeared  up  the  road,  and  halted  be- 
fore the  side  gates  which  were  close  to  the 
chalet. 

"Fiend  with  a  donkey's  head,"  shouted  Su- 
sanne, "can  you  not  come  on  then?  Are  you 
blind  as  well  as  an  idiot  that  you  do  not  see  us 
standing  here  ?" 

Her  shrill  voice  rang  out  like  a  cracked  trum- 
pet, and,  as  the  coachman  urged  forward  his 
steed,  her  tones  changed  to  withering  sarcasm. 
"Ah,  yes,  now  that  it  is  too  late  thou  canst 
come ;  thou  canst  be  in  great  haste ;  thou  canst 
beat  thy  poor  horse !  H&!  Lout,  fiend,  sev- 
enth son  of  seven  times  seven  brigands,  come  on 
then — come!" 

She  danced  up  and  down  in  the  road,  and 
shook  her  fists  and  her  cap,  until  a  horse  unac- 


MR.  VAUG  HAN'S  HEIR. 


customcd  to  living  among  people  of  her  country 
would  have  dashed  off  in  a  fright ;  but  neither 
horse  nor  driver  paid  the  slightest  attention  to 
the  dramatic  burst  whereby  she  somewhat  re- 
lieved her  long  pent-up  ill-humor.  As  he  near- 
ed  the  group,  the  coachman  lifted  his  hat,  and 
explained,  in  his  slow,  Swiss  fashion,  that  the 
delay  hud  not  been  owing  to  any  fault  of  his. 
Monsieur  could  see  that  he  had  another  horse. 
Would  Monsieur  just  observe  that  ? 

"Stolen,  no  doubt;  thief!  assassin!"  shouted 
!Susanne. 

' '  Susanne,  I  will  have  you  drowned  in  the 
lake  if  you  do  not  remain  quiet,"  observed  her 
young  mistress,  calmly. 

"But  she  is  right;  the  man's  conduct  is  un- 
pardonable, "  cried  Monsieur,  glaring  at  the  guilty- 
wretch  through  his  spectacles  as  ferociously  as 
his  kindly  eyes  could  manage. 

"Let  him  explain,"  ordered  Nathalie,  ani- 
mated by  a  not  unusual  spirit  of  contradiction. 
"  Tell  us  what  detained  you,  my  good  man." 

The  coachman  announced  his  conviction  that 
Mademoiselle  was  an  angel.  There  was  a  fiend- 
ish chuckle  from  Susanne;  but  whether  intended 
to  express  anger  at  the  guilty  wretch's  presump- 
tion, or  scorn  of  the  young  lady's  claims  to  the 
title  he  had  bestowed  upon  her,  did  not  appear. 

"Indeed,  Mademoiselle,  it  was  not  my  fault. 
I  set  out  in  ample  time.  I  had  accomplished 
half  the  distance,  when  my  stupid  brute  of  a 
horse  stumbled,  and  lamed  himself.  I  had  to 
tie  him  to  a  gate,  and  go  back  to  Clarens  for 
another. " 

If  ever  a  sound  from  human  throat — half  a 
snort,  half  a  laugh — expressed  utter  incredulity 
and  contempt,  it  was  the  sound  wherewith 
Susanne  greeted  this  explanation.  But  she  had 
no  time  to  speak  ;  Monsieur  quickly  interposed, 
and,  so  weary  that  he  only  asked  to  get  where 
lie  could  sit  down  and  rest,  said,  with  touching 
i  equation — 

"  Well,  well ;  give  me  the  paletot  and  the  sac 
Je  voyage.  I  go  by  train." 

"I  can  take  Monsieur  and  the  lady  to  the  sta- 
tion." 

"  No,  no— it  is  only  threa  steps,"  interrupted 
Nathalie. 

"Hi!  a  step  is  a  step,  and  my  legs  are  fifty 
years  old.  I  shall  be  driven,"  cried  Susanne, 
indignant  that  the  coachman  had  not  included 
her  in  his  proffer.  She  mounted  nimbly  into 
the  carriage,  and  sat  up  as  erect  as  if  her  spinal 
column  had  been  a  steel  bar.  "  Go  on,  then," 
she  exclaimed,  in  grim  triumph;  "and  if  my 
neck  is  broken  by  your  stupidity,  it  shall  cost 
you  dear,  if  I  have  to  bring  the  case  before 
every  court  in  Switzerland,  should  there  be  such 
a  thing  ns  justice  in  this  accursed  land.  Go 
mi !" 

The  Swiss  gave  her  one  glare  from  under  his 
bushy  eyebrows ;  but  she  looked  so  warlike,  so 


bristling  with  a  desire  for  battle,  that  he  did 
not  venture  upon  a  syllable  in  reply.  Susanne 
spared  him  neither  taunt  nor  gibe  as  the  horse 
toiled  up  the  steep  little  hill,  and  Nathalie  and 
Monsieur  followed. 

The  carriage  stopped  at  the  station :  Susanne 
descended,  paletot  and  sack  in  hand ;  descended 
in  silence,  for  she  was  at  the  end  of  her  breath, 
if  not  of  her  eloquence. 

"  H€!"  called  the  coachman,  suddenly  taking 
advantage  of  her  condition.  "Devil — she-devil 
— daughter  of  the  fiend !  A  witch — a  wrinkled 
witch — Atf,  A£" 

He  lashed  his  horse  into  a  gallop,  and  dashed 
off.  Susanne  dropped  the  bag ;  recovered  from 
her  first  stupor ;  made  a  movement  as  if  to 
pursue  the  retreating  wretch ;  but  the  vehicle 
disappeared,  and  she  passed  on  into  the  station 
with  a  face  which  would  have  caused  a  sphinx 
to  laugh. 

The  train  steamed  up,  and  cut  short  Mon- 
sieur's pathetic  little  adieus.  A  frantic  guard, 
who  looked  as  if  he  had  been  born  in  a  hurry 
and  had  been  in  a  hurry  ever  since,  bundled  the 
elderly  gentleman  into  a  compartment  with  ir- 
reverent haste,  and  shouted  the  signal  for  de- 
parture. Monsieur,  gallant  to  the  last,  struggled 
up  from  the  recumbent  posture  into  which  the 
guard's  violence  had  forced  him,  tried  to  lean 
out  of  the  window  to  wave  a  last  farewell, 
knocked  his  head  against  the  door,  lost  his  hat, 
nearly  lost  his  wig,  and  fell  back  with  a  groan  : 
it  was  a  morning  of  disasters. 

As  Nathalie  and  Susanne  descended  the  steps 
of  the  station,  Miss  Crauford  was  just  coming 
down  the  road. 

"I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,"  cried  Nathalie, 
running  toward  her.  "Are  you  tired?  Would 
you  like  a  long  walk  ?  I  have  the  whole  day  to 
myself.  Monsieur  has  gone  to  Geneva.  Oh,  he 
nearly  lost  his  wig  at  the  last !  If  you  had  seen 
it!  But  will  you  come?  Please  do!  I  have 
been  so  lonely  here — so  anxious  for  your  arrival  1 
Now  do  not  be  stiff  and  stony,  like  an  English 
girl — let  us  be  friends  at  once. " 

"With  all  my  heart,"  said  Elizabeth,  holding 
out  her  hand. 

"Oh,  the  pretty  hand !"  cried  Nathalie,  look- 
ing at  the  ungloved  fingers  with  naive  admira- 
tion. ' '  Nothing  so  pretty  as  an  American  hand. 
Mine  is  well,  because  it  is  half  American ;  but 
yours  is  perfect.  Only  look,  Susanne." 

Susanne  was  dropping  courtesies,  her  face  radi- 
ant with  smiles.  She  had  heard  that  the  new- 
comers were  very  grand  people,  and  Susanne 
turned  into  a  model  of  decorum  and  respect  at 
once.  Still  she  retained  possession  of  her  senses. 
Susanne  hated  long  rambles,  and  had  no  mind 
to  be  dragged  off  on  one  of  her  mistress's  wild 
expeditious,  even  in  the  society  of  the  rich  Amer- 
ican. 

"Dear  Mademoiselle,"  she  whispered,  "I  am 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


27 


desolated ;  but,  Madame — I  must  return  to  the 
house.  That  sweet,  suffering  angel  will  require 
me." 

"How  vexatious!"  cried  Nathalie.  "Mam- 
ma would  be  shocked  at  our  going  alone ;  and 
it  is  a  shame  to  lose  such  a  beautiful  day." 

"  "We  might  go  to  the  house  and  find  my  maid, 
if  some  sort  of  protection  is  an  absolute  neces- 
sity," suggested  Elizabeth,  good-naturedly.  Na- 
thalie looked  so  pretty  and  childish  that  she 
could  not  bear  to  have  her  disappointed. 

Susanne  volubly  pronounced  this  a  most  ad- 
mirable suggestion.  Mademoiselle  was  full  of 
goodness  and  resources !  It  was  a  grief  to  her, 
Susanne,  not  to  be  able  to  accompany  the  young 
ladies ;  but  her  duty,  her  duty ! 

"Susanne,"  retorted  Nathalie,  "do  you  re- 
member my  explaining  to  you  the  other  day 
what  an  English  word  meant  ?" 

"Ah,  yes;  ze  hoomboog!"  cried  Susanne, 
proud  to  show  her  accomplishments  before  the 
stranger. 

"Just  so,"  said  Nathalie;  "and  that  is  what 
you  are,  a  humbug— the  hugest  one  in  exist- 
ence." 

She  took  Elizabeth's  arm,  and  walked  on. 
Susanne  was  crest-fallen  for  a  few  moments ; 
but  by  the  time  they  reached  the  gates  she  re- 
covered her  power  of  speech. 

"  Mademoiselle  loves  her  joke,"  she  said, 
apparently  addressing  nobody  in  particular. 
"Mademoiselle  laughs  at  her  Susanne;  but  she 
knows  her  worth  and  her  fidelity  notwithstand- 
ing." 

All  the  while  the  old  sycophant  was  wonder- 
ing if  some  scheme  could  not  be  devised  which 
should  oust  the  young  American's  maid  from 
her  present  enviable  position,  and  transfer  it  to 
that  embodiment  of  worth  and  fidelity  christened 
Susanne. 

"SVhile  Nathalie  ran  into  the  chalet  to  obtain 
her  mother's  consent,  Miss  Crauford  entered  the 
villa.  Her  father  was  up  and  dressed ;  but  he 
was  still  neuralgic  and  sentimental,  and  though 
he  talked  a  good  deal  of  poetry  about  the  scenery, 
was  quite  willing  that  Elizabeth  should  begin 
making  its  acquaintance  without  the  necessity 
of  exertion  on  his  part. 

"  Be  sure  you  admire  the  view  from  the 
Montreux  church,"  he  said;  "it  was  your  dear 
mother's  favorite  spot.  Ah,  well !  I  must  not 
try  too  much  at  first.  I  am  not  strong,  and  each 
haunt  here  is  so  full  of  memories.  And  there's 
a  young  lady  at  the  chalet — L'Estrange — verv 
good  name — is  to  marry  a  Monsieur  La  Tour. 
Hum !  ha ! — I  once  knew  a  La  Tour.  Yes  ;  go 
by  all  means.  In  general  I  do  not  approve  of 
intimacies  with  strangers ;  but  it  seems  these 
people  are  quite  safe.  Madame  Bocher  tells  me 
they  are  most  respectable.  Yes,  exactly — " 

And  his  speech  driveled  into  nothingness,  aft- 
er his  habit.  He  seldom  brought  his  halting 


remarks  to  an  end ;  they  just  faded  away  in 
ejaculations ;  an  irritating,  indolent  fashion, 
which  made  one  long  to  shake  a  little  energy 
into  him. 

Mr.  Crauford  had  been  a  valetudinarian  for 
the  last  ten  years — a  sore  trial  to  himself  and 
every  body  about  him.  The  worst  of  it  was 
that  he  could  write  verses,  and  this  caused  him 
to  believe  himself  a  poet.  He  never  had  gone 
beyond  publishing  a  few  stray  rhymes  in  some 
newspapers,  but  he  believed  himself  a  genius, 
kept  back  from  toil  and  fame  by  ill-health.  His 
genius  served  as  an  excuse  for  all  sorts  of  ill-hu- 
mors and  selfishness.  But  he  was  not  a  bad 
man  at  bottom,  only  a  weak  one,  and  fortunately 
for  his  daughter's  peace,  her  influence  over  him 
was  very  great. 

Elizabeth  had  expected  demur  on  his  part  as 
to  allowing  her  to  make  acquaintance  with  the 
French  girl,  until  by  some  means  every  particu- 
lar in  regard  to  her  and  her  mother  had  been 
got  at.  Mr.  Crauford  was  given  to  suspicion  of 
strangers — a  man  very  severe  too  in  his  judg- 
ments of  his  acquaintances.  Mr.  Crauford  could 
tolerate  neither  slip  nor  stumble.  He  was  as 
unmerciful  as  certain  elderly  women ;  so  very 
unmerciful  that  ill-natured  people  sometimes 
wondered,  as  such  persons  do  in  regard  to  those 
female  censors,  whether  somewhere  in  his  youth 
there  had  not  been  peccadilloes  or  worse  to 
cover  up.  Naturally,  Elizabeth  thought  nothing 
of  the  kind.  She  did  not  even  admit  to  herself, 
what  at  the  bottom  her  clear-judging  rnind  must 
have  known,  that  in  the  present  instance  her 
father  yielded  just  because  it  was  a  personal  con- 
venience. Elizabeth  loved  her  father,  and  hid 
his  selfishness  from  her  sight,  concealing  it  un- 
der pretty  names  and  generous  excuses ;  and  it 
spoke  well  for  her  character  that  she  did  so. 

Having  given  his  consent  cheerfully,  his  next 
speech  was  to  urge  the  propriety  of  her  remain- 
ing at  home.  But  Elizabeth  was  too  thoroughly 
accustomed  to  such  change  and  vacillation  on 
his  part  to  feel  surprise,  and  too  determined  to 
preserve  her  illusions  in  regard  to  her  father  for 
either  amusement  or  contempt.  It  was  just  a 
habit  of  papa's — invalids  always  fell  into  certain 
odd  ways — people  possessing  the  poetic  tempera- 
ment especially.  Elizabeth,  with  all  her  desire 
to  elevate  her  parent  on  a  lofty  pedestal,  could 
not  persuade  herself  that  he  was  a  poet ;  but  to 
attribute  the  poetic  temperament  to  him  made  a 
very  satisfactory  and  well-sounding  excuse  for 
his  vagaries. 

They  had  luncheon  together  in  an  upper  room, 
which  Mr.  Crauford  decided  to  appropriate  as  a 
study.  Wherever  he  went  he  must  have  a  study : 
it  served  at  least  as  a  place  in  which  to  smoke 
and  doze  comfortably.  Madame  Bocher  won- 
dered why  they  could  not  take  all  their  meals  in 
the  dining-room,  and  informed  Gervais  that  "if 
they  went  on  this  way  they  would  find  plenty  of 


28 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


extra-service  in  the  month's  bill."  Gervais  had 
the  luncheon-tray  in  his  own  hands,  and  being  a 
humorist  after  his  fashion,  was  so  tickled  by  the 
idea  of  Madame's  expecting  to  be  paid  for  serv- 
ice rendered  to  Mr.  Crauford  by  Mr.  Crauford's 
domestic,  that  he  nearly  dropped  dishes  and 
plates  in  his  silent  laughter. 

Three  separate  times  during  the  repast  Mr. 
Cranford  was  of  the  opinion  that  he  would  send 
for  a  carriage  and  accompany  the  young  ladies ; 
twice  that  Elizabeth  had  better  remain  at  home. 
But  these  were  trifling  changes. 

"You  see  I  want  a  walk,  papa,"  Elizabeth 
said,  patiently.  "  You  must  have  a  carriage 
come  as  usual  each  day ;  you  must  not  give  up 
your  drive,  and  I  shall  go  with  you.  But  I  must 
have  my  walks  too,  and  ride  donkeys.  Made- 
moiselle L'Estrange  says  one  can  get  such  jolly, 
obstinate  little  donkeys  up  at  Montreux." 

"The  very  tiling.  Well,  1  would  advise  yon 
to-day  to  get  donkeys,  and  go  to  the  chateau  of 
Rochelle."  Exactly  in  the  opposite  direction  to 
that  decided  on  by  the  girls.  "What  do  you 
say  to  going  out  on  the  lake  in  a  boat  ?"  This 
last  suggestion,  delivered  with  airy  cheerfulness, 
as  if  Elizabeth  had  been  at  a  loss  how  to  amuse 
herself,  and  he  had  hit  on  this  proposal  in  his 
fatherly  care. 

"Certainly,  papa,  if  you  would  like  to  go." 

"My  child!"  in  horror,  "when  you  know  I 
hate  a  sail-boat !  Ah,  me !  young  people  are  so 
heedless.  Your  dear  mamma  would  never  have 
forgotten  that  I  detest  a  sail-boat  Indeed,  I 
wonder  you  can  ever  wish  to  get  into  one ; 
they're  never  safe.  Elizabeth,  we  might  go 
down  in  the  train  to  Vevay,  and  see  what  we 
find  in  the  way  of  horses  and  carriages  to  take 
by  the  month." 

"Yes,  papa." 

"On  the  whole,  Elizabeth,  I  suppose  I  am 
better  off  in  the  house ;  my  neuralgia  is  very 
troublesome." 

A  tap  at  the  door.  Margot,  Miss  Cranford's 
maid,  to  say  that  Mademoiselle  L'Estrange  was 
waiting. 

"Go,  by  all  means,  my  love!  Don't  mind 
me ;  I  shall  get  on  very  well,"  sighed  Mr.  Crau- 
ford. 

He  was  anxious  to  be  left  alone,  in  order  that 
he  might  indulge  in  more  smoking  and  a  longer 
nap  thnn  was  reasonable ;  but  the  poetic  tem- 
perament led  him  to  veil  this  desire  even  from 
his  own  eyes  under  the  pleasing  shape  of  self- 
abnegation.  Elizabeth  understood  the  truth  as 
well  as  he,  but  she  blinded  herself  too,  and  really 
felt  pangs  of  reproach,  as  if  she  had  been  a  hard- 
ened oinner  pursuing  her  own  gratification  at  the 
exjxMise  of  her  father's  comfort. 

As  she  reached  the  porch  in  front  of  the  villa 
she  saw  Nathalie  pacing  up  and  down  the  gravel 
walk  which  ran  before  the  house  nnd  chalet. 

"I  thought  you  would  never  come,"  cried  the 


French  girl,  hurrying  forward  to  meet  her  new 
friend.  "Mamma  has  been  so  tiresome;  her 
head  aches,  and  that  makes  her  horribly  pious. 
She  says  she  wishes  she  had  made  a  nun  of  me, 
instead  of  bringing  me  out  of  the  convent  to  be 
married.  I  do  think  elderly  people  are  dread- 
ful ;  do  not  you  ?" 

It  was  plain  that  Mademoiselle  Nathalie  made 
slight  attempt  to  keep  up  illusions  where  her 
parent  was  concerned.  Miss  Crauford  did  not 
approve  of  this  speech,  so  she  returned  no  an- 
swer whatever.  Nathalie  gave  her  graceful  head 
a  toss  and  walked  on ;  but  as  they  reached  the 
gate  she  stopped  short  and  confronted  her  com- 
panion, looking  rebellious  and  heated,  though 
her  eyes  danced  with  mischief  in  spite  of  her 
evident  irritation. 

"  If  you  mean  to  be  English  and  awful,  I  shall 
remain  at  home,"  said  she. 

"But  I  do  not  mean  to  be  either." 

"A  la  bonne  heure!"  cried  Nathalie.  "Then 
have  the  goodness  not  to  look  shocked  at  my  fool- 
ish speeches.  If  I  can  not  say  whatever  comes 
into  my  head,  I  shall  not  talk  with  you." 

Elizabeth  laughed ;  the  girl  was  so  arch  and 
childlike  that  one  could  neither  take  offense  nor 
think  her  rude. 

"You  look  very  handsome  when  you  laugh," 
observed  Nathalie  ;  "you  had  better  indulge  in 
the  exercise  whenever  you  can,  for  your  mouth 
is  a  little  sad  and  stern." 

"Never  mind  my  mouth." 

"Pardon,  one  ought  always  to  mind  pretty 
things." 

"In  the  mean  time  the  morning  is  passing; 
we  shall  have  no  walk,"  suggested  Elizabeth. 
"  Where  is  Margot?" 

That  eminently  respectable  female  appeared  at 
the  door  of  the  chalet,  where  she  had  been  in- 
dulging in  a  little  gossip  with  Snsanne.  They 
had  formed  acquaintance  already ;  and  as  Su- 
sanne  was  too  old  to  receive  the  least  notice 
from  Gervais,  Margot  felt  in  her  heart  a  nascent 
friendship  for  her  countrywoman.  Could  she 
have  gained  the  slightest  clew  to  the  wild  thought 
which  had  this  morning  crossed  Susanne's  brain 
as  to  the  possibility  of  exchanging  her  present 
service  for  that  occupied  by  Mademoiselle  Mar- 
got,  the  fiery  Burgundjan  would  have  throttled 
the  wily  Breton  on  the  door-step.  Fortunately 
for  the  general  harmony,  no  suspicion  troubled 
Margot's  mind,  and  the  two  parted  amicably, 
and  with  as  many  mutual  compliments  as  could 
have  been  devised  by  their  betters. 

Snsanne  watched  the  two  take  the  road  which 
struck  across  the  hills  directly  in  front  of  the 
gates,  and  wished  rather  enviously  that  she  were 
not  elderly  and  stout  and  very  lazy.  Then  she 
went  through  the  dark  passage,  with  two  bed- 
rooms on  one  side,  and  a  little  salon  at  the  end. 
From  here,  the  only  means  of  admittance  to  the 
rest  of  the  habitable  part  of  the  chalet  was  by 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


29 


the  long  outer  gallery,  the  front  portion  of  the 
interior  being  occupied  by  great  pressoirs  and 
casks,  where  later  the  wine  would  be  made. 
Two  more  bedrooms  opened  on  the  gallery ; 
then  came  glass-doors  which  led  into  a  large, 
comfortable  salon.  Beyond  was  a  dining-room, 
a  back  passage  connecting  with  all  these  cham- 
bers, a  kitchen  opposite  the  salle  a  manyer,  and 
another  covered  gallery  at  the  back,  which  over- 
looked the  Vevay  road  and  the  route  among  the 
hills. 

Susanne  heard  her  mistress's  voice  from  the 
bedroom,  and  immediately  burst  into  a  cheerful 
flood  of  song.  Her  notes  were  a  little  sharp 
and  cracked,  but  she  sang  with  a  will. 

"Are  you  never  coming?  Am  I  never  to  be 
dressed  ?"  called  the  peevish  accents. 

Susanne  was  traversing  the  salon  by  this  time ; 
she  checked  her  music.  ltl)ieu!"  cried  she; 
"if  I  did  not  think  Madame  was  having  a  little 
repose  after  her  chocolate." 

"Come  here  this  instant,"  ordered  Madame. 
"  Moulin  qui  dort,  qui  dort,"  chanted  Su- 
sanne, as  she  reached  the  passage  into  which 
her  mistress's  bedroom  opened.  "The  young 
ladies  are  off,"  she  said,  gayly.  "  Does  Madame 
desire  to  get  up  and  be  dressed  ?" 

"You  are  a  wicked  woman,"  cried  the  fretful 
voice  from  the  bed. 

Susanne  stood  in  the  doorway  and  shrugged 
her  shoulders.  "  Madame  has  her  nerves,"  she 
murmured. 

"I  have  nothing  of  the  sort,"  contradicted 
Madame.  "  I  am  thinking  about  my  soul,  and 
yours,  and  every  body's.  No  one  ever  tried  so 
hard  to  make  their  salvation  as  I  do.  I  have 
said  twenty  paternosters  this  morning,  and  have 
gone  through  the  Litany  of  St.  Barbara  without 
missing  a  line." 

"Then  I  am  sure  Madame  ought  to  be  com- 
fortable :  she  has  done  enough  for  one  day,"  re- 
turned Susanne,  soothingly. 

"I  have  never  done  enough,  and  I  am  so 
tired,"  moaned  Madame. 

"I  shall  give  Madame  her  drops,"  said  Su- 
sanne. 

She  bustled  about  and  prepared  the  potion ;  it 
was  to  be  administered  in  curacoa,  and  Susanne 
made  the  dose  of  liqueur  very  strong.  It  toll 
favorably  and  immediately  upon  the  weak,  ema- 
ciated woman.  She  sat  up  among  her  pillows, 
twisted  the  curls  of  her  still  luxuriant  hair  abou 
her  lean  fingers,  and  said  more  cheerfully — 

' '  I  think  I  will  put  on  the  new  robe  de  cham- 
bre  with  the  pink  trimmings,  Susanne,  and  the 
head-dress  to  match ;  perhaps  Monsieur  le  Cure 
will  kindly  look  in  before  night." 

"Good,"  thought  Susanne;  "at  least  she  is 

away  from  her  prayers  and  her  salvation  for  a 

-  little!     Of  course  one  must  think  about  such 

things  when  one  is  as  near  one's  end  as  Ma 

dame,  but  that  is  no  reason  for  wearying  those 


n  health.  It  is  my  firm  belief  that  Madame  will 
not  more  than  last  through  the  autumn,"  pur- 
sued Susanne  in  her  meditations,  while  getting 
out  the  new  gown  with  the  pink  trimmings. 
"She  might  as  well  not  tumble  and  spoil  her 
prettiest  clothes  by  lying  about  in  them.  But, 
jah,  Madame  was  always  selfishness  incarnate 
— she  never  thinks  of  me,  in  spite  of  my  devo- 
tion. As  for  dying — well,  I  thought  the  same 
iast  year  that  I  do  now,  and  here  she  is  yet ; 
that  woman  is  made  of  iron." 

Madame  in  bed,  with  a  cap  concealing  her 
hair  and  all  the  lines  showing  in  her  worn  feat- 
ures, was  a  very  different-looking  object  from 
Madame  carefully  dressed,  with  a  little  rouge 
dropped  into  her  sunken  cheeks,  and  her  spirits 
elevated  by  the  tonic  and  the  cura9oa.  She  had 
been  a  wonderfully  handsome  woman,  and  her 
great  flashing  eyes  were  yet  beautiful,  though 
unnaturally  bright.  She  suffered  a  great  deal 
of  pain,  which  she  bore  philosophically  enough. 
She  was  slowly  dying  of  some  internal  disease, 
but  she  had  been  so  long  about  it,  that,  like  Su- 
sanne, she  had  her  doubts  whether  she  might 
not  live  as  long  as  other  people  after  all.  She 
was  horribly  afraid  of  death  ;  she  tried  very 
hard  to  make  her  salvation,  as  she  expressed  it, 
but  it  was  tiresome  work.  Madame  had  lived 
a  gay  life,  and  she  hankered  still  after  her  old 
pleasures  ;  and  sometimes  the  old  fiery  spirit 
came  up,  and  she  fairly  cursed  in  the  midst  of 
her  prayers,  in  a  sort  of  desperate  rage  at  hav- 
ing lost  her  youth,  her  beauty,  and  the  health 
which  had  rendered  both  gifts  enjoyable.  She 
liked  to  bemoan  her  past  sins  to  her  spiritual 
director.  She  really  thought  she  did  it  from 
contrition  and  remorse,  but  in  reality  there  was 
a  satisfaction  in  living  over  those  memories,  even 
while  she  smote  her  breast  and  grew  frightened 
lest  the  errors  should  drag  her  down  to  hell  in 
spite  of  her  prayers  and  her  penances. 

"I  find  myself  wonderfully  well  to-day,"  she 
observed  to  Susanne.  "I  wish  Monsieur  La 
Tour  had  not  gone  to  Geneva.  But  it  is  a  com- 
fort to  be  rid  of  Nathalie ;  she  is  so  full  of  spir- 
its, so  well  and  strong,  that  child ! " 

Susanne  smiled  secretly.  She  was  very  shrewd, 
this  godless,  hard-headed  old  woman.  There 
were  days  when  Madame  fairly  hated  Nathalie 
for  her  beauty,  and  her  youth,  and  her  health, 
though  she  loved  her  daughter  in  her  own  way 
—  sometimes  in  a  rather  tigress  sort  of  way. 
Susanne  understood  every  one  of  her  mistress's 
weaknesses,  and  amused  her  monotonous  life  by 
studying  them,  quite  unconscious  that  she  was  a 
kind  of  heathen  philosopher  in  her  fashion. 

"  Susanne,"  said  Madame,  "  I  think  if  I  were 
well  wrapped  up  I  might  sit  in  the  gallery.  I 
can't  walk  about  the  grounds  to-day ;  I  had  a 
little  pain  in  the  night,  and  it  leaves  my  legs 
weak." 

Susanne  moved  out  a  low  easy-chair,  envel- 


30 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


oped  her  mistress  in  a  great  shawl,  and  estab- 
lished the  invalid  comfortably.  The  sun  was 
warm  and  bright ;  the  birds  sang  in  the  walnut- 


trees  :  the  waters  lapped  musically  against  the   of  death  came  over  her. 

shore.    Madame  could  look  down  the  lake  where 

the  light  lay  golden  and  beautiful.    But  Madame 

had  never  cared  ranch  for  Nature ;  the  dullest 

street  in  1'aris  would  have  been  more  lovely  in 

her  eyes  than  the  grandest  landscape.     Only 

the  express  commands  of  her  physician  kept  her 

in  this  quiet  spot.     Life  had  lost  all  interest; 

she  was  fearfully  bored ;  she  suffered  martyrdom 

from  physical  pain ;  still  Madame  clung  to  the 

existence  she  hated,  and  was  even  content  to 

bury  herself  in  this  stupid  Swiss  valley,  since  in 

so  doing  lay  her  one  hope  of  putting  off  that  last 

solitary  journey  she  dreaded. 

"I  think  I  might  read  a  little,"  she  said,  as 
Susanne  stood  watching  her  with  a  cynical  face, 
amused  to  see  how  natural  it  was  to  Madame  to 
pose  and  put  herself  in  a  graceful  attitude,  al- 
though there  was  no  one  to  see — no  man,  that 
is ;  women  had  never  any  importance  in  Ma- 
dame's  creed.  "There  is  a  new  book  under 
my  pillow,  Susanne ;  I  hid  it  for  fear  Nathalie 
should  find  it." 

Susanne  went  in  search  of  the  volume,  and  re- 
turned with  it  in  her  hand — a  novel — an  autobi- 
ography of  a  Parisian  gallant,  whose  revelations 
were  enough  to  make  one's  hair  stand  on  end. 

"I  said  the  whole  Litany  of  St.  Barbara," 
murmured  Madame;  "I  might  indulge  myself, 
I  think.  Remind  me  to  go  over  the  Offerings 
of  St.  Joseph  before  dinner,  Susanne." 

Some  sound  from  below  roused  Madame ;  she 
raised  herself  among  her  pillows  and  glanced 
through  the  railings.  Mr.  Crauford  had  strolled 
out  of  the  villa  and  approached  the  chalet.  He 
was  standing  on  the  lawn  now,  speaking  with  the 
fermier.  Madame's  eyes — those  sunken,  fever- 
ishly bright  eyes — were  as  sharp  as  an  eagle's, 
and  Madame  possessed  a  memory  which  neither 
illness  nor  time  had  touched. 

Mr.  Crauford's  face  was  turned  full  toward 
her  as  he  stood ;  Madame  looked  curiously 
down,  looked  more  closely;  a  puzzled  expres- 
sion crossed  her  features,  and  was  succeeded  by 
a  great  trouble.  She  caught  hold  of  the  balus- 
trade with  both  hands  to  steady  herself,  for  a 
nervous  trembling  began  to  shake  her  whole 
frame. 

Presently  Mr.  Crauford  walked  elotfly  on,  and 
was  lost  to  sight  among  the  trees.  Madame  fell 
back  in  her  chair ;  her  eyes  closed ;  her  breath 
came  in  quick,  convulsive  gasps.  After  a  while 
Susinne.  luisy  in  the  further  room,  heard  her 
mistress's  voice  in  the  sharp,  broken  tone  which 
denoted  one  of  her  attacks  of  pain.  She  hurried 
out,  and  found  Madame  leaning  weak  and  help- 
less against  her  cushions,  a  ghastly  gray  pallor 
overspreading  her  countenance— a  pallor  ren- 
dered the  more  dreadful  from  its  contrast  to  the 


painted  spots  in  her  hollow  cheeks.  Snsanne  had 
sometimes  seen  her  look  like  this  when  awaken- 
ing suddenly  from  a  bad  dream,  or  when  a  fear 


' '  Madame  is  suffering,  "she  said ,  kindly  enough. 
"  Is  it  the  old  pain?" 

The  woman  made  a  motion  that  she  wished  to 
go  iu-doors.  Susanne  wheeled  her  chair  through 
the  open  window  into  the  salon.  Madame  was 
no  great  weight  nowadays. 

Susanne  went  off  in  search  of  restorative  med- 
icines, moving  rapidly,  and  speaking  good-nat- 
uredly, though  she  did  think  it  selfish  of  the 
invalid  to  cause  her  so  much  trouble. 

"She  looks  very  odd,"  was  Susanne's  secret 
comment,  as  she  worked  over  her.  "  Each  at- 
tack seems  to  get  worse.  Any  body  else  would 
soon  go  to  bits;  but  there,  Madame  was  born 
with  a  constitution  like  a  horse ;  she  is  iron,  no 
less !" 

Madame  lay  down  on  the  sofa  for  some  time ; 
gradually  the  trembling  ceased,  the  face  lost  its 
drawn  expression.  Susanne  knew  the  crise  had 
passed. 

"It  was  only  fatigue,"  Madame  said,  after 
a  while ;  "  I  am  better  now." 

"Shall  I  bring  Madame  a  soup?"  Susanne 
asked,  wondering,  as  she  often  did,  at  the  forti- 
tude with  which  the  woman  fought  against  these 
attacks. 

"No;  I  could  not  take  it  yet;  I  will  have 
some  more  drops  presently. "  She  lay  quiet  again 
for  a  little.  Susanne  thought  she  was  dropping 
into  a  doze,  but  she  half  opened  her  eyes,  and 
asked,  "What  did  you  say  was  the  name  of 
the  new  people  in  the  villa  ?  English  people,  I 
think  Nathalie  told  me  they  were." 

Susanne  was  accustomed  to  such  efforts  on 
Madame's  part  to  distract  her  mind  when  suffer- 
ing. 

"They  are  Americans,"  the  old  woman  an- 
swered, quite  ready  to  converse,  if  her  mistress 
was  able  to  listen ;  "  though  I  can  see  no  differ- 
ence between  the  two ;  they  all  talk  the  same 
impossible  jargon." 

"Americans!"  repeated  Madame,  in  a  low 
tone. 

' '  Yes,  Mademoiselle  says  America  is  very  far 
off — oh,  farther  than  Sicily,  even. " 

"I  dare  say,"  returned  Madame,  absently, 
who,  in  her  character  of  Frenchwoman,  was 
probably  almost  as  ignorant  of  geography  as 
Susanne. 

"  When  people  live  so  far  away,  I  wonder 
they  are  not  content  to  keep  at  home,"  pursued 
Susanne.  "  Not  that  one  has  any  thing  to  say 
against  them.  The  father  is  rather  tiresome 
with  his  fancies,  Madame  Bocher  says ;  but 
the  demoiselle  is  as  sweet  a  lady  as  one  could 
wish  to  see.  She  is  fond  of  our  little  Nathalie, 


"Ah!"  said  Madame.     She  had  her  head 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


31 


turned  away ;  there  was  a  very  peculiar  expres- 
sion in  her  face  ;  she  looked  as  if  trying  to 
make  herself  believe  that  she  had  been  disturbed 
by  some  accidental  resemblance  when  she  saw 
the  stranger  standing  below  her  balcony.  Twice 
her  lips  parted  to  ask  a  question ;  twice  she 
checked  the  words,  afraid  that  the  answer  would 
only  confirm  the  truth  of  what  she  was  endeav- 
oring to  regard  as  a  fancy  of  her  own. 

In  the  mean  while  Susanne  ran  on  volubly 
in  her  account  of  the  strangers.  She  was  inter- 
ested even  in  the  strength  of  their  coffee,  knew 
exactly  how  many  pairs  of  stockings  the  young 
lady  carried  among  her  possessions — Margot  had 
given  the  information — and  the  number  was  al- 
most incredible  to  Susanne. 

"Ah,"  said  Madame  again,  without  having 
heard  a  syllable  of  the  monologue.  "And  their 
name  is  Lisbet,  is  it  not  ?" 

"No,  no ;  that  is  the  name  of  the  demoiselle, 
or  some  outlandish  name  like  it.  How  is  it  one 
says  the  other — le  noin  defainille?  Wait  —  I 
have  it — Monsieur — oh,  those  accursed  English 
names  !  Ah.  Monsieur  Crau-ford,"  panted  Su- 
sanne, with  great  difficulty. 

As  Madame  asked  the  question,  she  raised  her 
head  from  the  pillow,  awaiting  the  answer  with 
an  eagerness  which  escaped  her  companion. 
Once  more  a  hollow  groan  startled  the  Breton. 
Madame  had  fallen  back  on  the  sofa,  and  faint- 
eJ  completely  away.  . 


CHAPTER  V. 

MONSIEUR'S  RETURN. 

MONSIEUR  LA  TOUR  certainly  deserved  a  wavm 
welcome  on  his  return  from  what  he  would  have 
called  "son  petit  voyage,"  for  not  only  had  he 
found  leisure  to  purchase  an  exceedingly  pretty 
bracelet  to  clasp  on  his  betrothed's  arm,  but 
Madame  L'Estrange  and  Susanne  were  both  re- 
membered. Monsieur  displayed  a  happy  tact, 
too,  where  Madame  was  concerned.  He  brought 
her  some  illuminated  legends  of  a  favorite  saint, 
which  gratified  her  superstitious  attempts  to  be 
what  she  termed  religious ;  and  he  added  a 
quantity  of  carved  boxes  and  other  articles  for 
her  toilet -table,  lest  her  worldly  mood  should 
chance  to  be  uppermost  on  his  arrival,  and  cause 
her  to  regard  the  legends  and  their  pictures  with 
secret  disfavor. 

Madame  was  charmed ;  she  examined  the 
fancifully  shaped  bottles  of  rare  scent,  the  porce- 
lain ornaments  twisted  into  heathen  gods,  with 
the  glee  of  an  old  baby ;  and  Susanne  was  al- 
most equally  delighted.  Then  a  pain  seized 
Madame  in  her  back.  She  ordered  the  pretty 
vanities  to  be  put  out  of  sight,  and  began  hei 
Jeremiades  and  frightened  prayers ;  but  there 
Susanne  could  not  follow  her — she  could  stand 


in  no  need  of  either  herself  while  her  health  was 
so  perfect  as  at  present. 

'  Tell  Nathalie  to  take  Monsieur  out  on  the 
lawn,  Susanne,"  said  Madame,  dolefully.  "Oh, 
my  back !  Oh,  my  sins !  I  am  the  most 
wretched  woman  alive !  I  have  no  peace  here, 
and  I  shall  have  none  hereafter,  and  I  try  so 
hard !  I  wanted  a  taste  of  confitures  yesterday, 
and  I  would  not  touch  them  just  by  way  of  pen- 
ance, and  I  save  and  save  from  my  annuity  in 
order  to  leave  something  to  the  Convent  of  the 
Sacre  Coeur.  The  Superior  is  almost  a  saint ; 
she  promised  to  have  prayers  said  for  me,  and 
only  to  think,  Susanne,  she  was  once  a  sinner 
like  the  worst  of  us.  Yes,  indeed,  she  was  put 
into  that  very  convent  by  her  family  to  quiet  a 
horrible  esclandre,  and  now  she  is  at  the  head, 
and  would  rather  than  not  live  on  pulse  and 
lentils  the  whole  year.  I  do  not  think  people 
deserve  half  so  much  credit  when  they  can  make 
their  salvation  so  easily!  Here  she  is  a  saint 
nearly,  and  will^scape  purgatory,  and  I — oh, 
Susanne  !  dear  Susanne  !  send  for  the  Cure  ;  I 
am  worse — I  die';  send  for  the  Cure,  I  implore 
thee!"  %  /  .^ 

"To  the  devil  with  the  Cure',"  was  exactly 
what  Susanne  thought.  "  The  poor  silly  soul 
is  frightened  enough  now.  She  shall  have  a 
draught,  hot  and  strong,  to  steady  her  nerves, 
and  then  she  will  forget  about  purgatory  fur  a 
little  while.  Really,  the  best  she  can  do  is  to 
die  as  soon  as  Mademoiselle  is  married,  for  this 
becomes  of  a  toiium  that  is  insupportable ;  it  is 
too  much  to  bjRortured  here  and  scorched  here- 
after also."  if 

Down  by  the  lake  Nathalie  and  Monsieur 
encountered  Elizabeth  Crauford;  and  Elizabeth 
liked  him  for  his  quaint,  old-fashioned  manners, 
ana  long  compliments  which  sounded  like  speech- 
es out  of  a*  last-century's  romance.  She  felt 
vexed  with  Nathalie  for  laughing  at  him,  but 
Monsieur  did  not  seem  greatly  to  mind,  and 
looked  at  her  over  his  spectacles  with  beaming 
admiration.  He  was  so  little,  so  dainty  in  his 
dress,  so  marvelous  in  his  bows,  that  it  might 
have  been  difficult  for  this  irreverent  youthful  gen- 
eration not  to  smile  at  his  antiquated  elegancies ; 
but  Elizabeth  read  goodness  and  probity  in  every 
line  of  his  face — a  certain  strength  of  will  and 
determination,  too — and  she  conceived  a  respect 
for  him  accordingly. 

After  a  while  Mr.  Crauford  came  out  to  sun 
himself  for  a  space,  and  the  four  spent  a  very 
pleasant  afternoon,  and  Nathalie  yawned  less 
than  she  was  in  the  habit  of  doing  during  her 
affianced's  visits. 

Mr.  Crauford  and  Monsieur  discovered  that 
they  had  been  slightly  acquainted  some  ten  years 
ago  in  Paris,  and  felt  now  —  as  acquaintances 
meeting  in  a  very  quiet  spot  are  apt  to — as  if 
they  had  been  old  friends. 

"They  will  play  piquet  and  talk  together," 


32 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


thought  Nathalie.  "What  a  mercy!  How  droll 
they  both  are !  I  should  like  to  tie  their  coat- 
tails  together,  and  hear  them  go  crac  when  they 
tried  to  get  up !  It  is  very  tiresome,  to  be  sure. 
I  would  rather  be  married ;  then  I  should  get  to 
Paris,  at  least !  I  am  sure  I  shall  turn  wrinkled 
and  gray  if  I  do  not  soon  find  some  excitement. 
How  can  Elizabeth  listen  so  patiently  to  their 
prosing  ?  I  am  half  afraid  of  her,  but  I  do  love 
her  already,  and  I  wish  she  had  not  come." 

Elizabeth  was  listening  with  more  than  pa- 
tience— she  was  interested  in  the  conversation. 
Her  father  talked  very  well  when  he  forgot  him- 
self—his fancied  ailments  and  his  poetical  tem- 
perament ;  and  if  Monsieur  was  a  little  heavy 
and  stilted  in  his  speech,  every  thing  he  said 
displayed  good  sense  and  culture.  Elizabeth 
was  more  inclined  than  ever  to  think  Nathalie 
ungrateful.  The  girl  needed  exactly  such  a 
guardian  and  protector  as  she  would  find  in  Mon- 
sieur. He  would  keep  her  from  follies,  and  per- 
haps teach  her  the  Latin  grammar.  One  must 
excuse  Elizabeth,  for  as  yet  she  had  no  percep- 
tion of  what  love  really  meant — not  the  very 
slightest  breath  had  stirred  her  heart  in  its  maid- 
en slumber.  It  was  plain  that  Monsieur  adored 
the  willful  girl,  and  to  Elizabeth  it  seemed  only 
fitting  that  she  should  love  him  in  return,  just 
from  gratitude. 

Monsieur  had  lived  to  be  fifty  without  falling 
in  love ;  he  had  property  enough  not  to  need 
any  young  woman's  dot,  nor  would  this  usual 
reason  for  marriage  among  his  countrymen  have 
influenced  him.  His  mother  had  lived  until  with- 
in the  last  few  years,  and  that  gentle  lady  ruled 
him  all  her  life.  He  had  vegetated  calmly  iu  his 
provincial  town ;  going  occasionally  to  Paris  for 
a  change ;  had  attended  to  his  duties  as  propri- 
etor ;  had  sometimes  been  mayor  and  once  pre- 
fet,  and  had  grown  elderly  almost  without  per- 
ceiving it. 

Less  than  a  twelvemonth  ago  he  had  gone  one 
day,  while  in  Paris,  to  visit  a  distant  relative,  the 
Superior  of  the  convent  in  which  Nathalie  had 
been  a  pupil  from  childhood.  While  Monsieur 
sat  conversing  with  the  old  lady,  who  liked  an 
occasional  gossip  about  the  outer  world,  Natha- 
lie entered  the  room  to  ask  some  favor  of  the 
worthy  head  of  the  establishment.  Monsieur 
was  dazed  by  the  radiant  vision.  Monsieur 
turned  into  an  antique  Romeo  at  once,  and  no- 
body could  have  been  more  astonished  than  he 
at  the  transformation. 

Monsieur  was  very  attentive  to  his  relative 
during  his  stay  in  the  capital,  and  contrived  to 
see  Nathalie  several  times.  Inquiries  in  regard 
to  her  family  were  less  favorable  than  could  have 
been  wished.  There  were  very  odd  stories  con- 
nected with  the  youth  of  Madame  L'Estrange 
— nothing  distinct  to  be  got  at— so  pass  those 
stories  over  as  Monsieur  did.  Madame  had 
married  an  American,  had  lived  with  him  in  It- 


aly, had  held  a  certain  position  among  a  tolera- 
bly respectable  world.  Soon  after  the  birth  of 
her  child  her  husband  had  separated  from  her. 
There  was  gossip,  but  the  actual  reasons  were 
never  known.  Madame  at  this  time  had  a  small 
property  left  her  by  a  relative  :  she  took  that 
and  the  relative's  name.  Only  a  few  years  later 
she  fell  into  ill-health.  Long  since  she  had  re- 
tired into  complete  seclusion  and  been  forgotten. 
Monsieur  was  alone ;  Monsieur  was  in  love ; 
so,  in  spite  of  these  discouraging  circumstances, 
lie  sought  Madame  L'Estrange  and  told  his  story. 
He  did  not  do  this  without  reflection.  He  would 
have  put  Nathalie  from  his  heart  if  he  could,  but 
that  being  impossible,  his  obstinacy  helped  him 
to  disregard  the  scruples  which  prudence  sug- 
gested. The  fact  of  Madame's  change  of  name 
must  prevent  the  quiet  people,  among  whom 
Monsieur  La  Tour's  wife  would  live,  from  con- 
necting her  in  any  way  with  the  old  scandals  in 
regard  to  her  parent.  Nathalie  was  sent  for  to 
Dijon,  where  her  mother  was  staying.  She  saw 
Monsieur  twice ;  then  she  accompanied  her 
mother  to  Switzerland.  Monsieur  arranged  his 
affairs,  and  that  done,  came  on  to  claim  his  bride, 
for  long  engagements  are  never  in  favor  among 
his  countrymen.  The  corbeille  would  arrive 
next  week,  the  marriage  would  take  place  very 
soon  after.  In  the  mean  time  Monsieur  sunned 
himself  in  such  smiles  as  Nathalie  could  be  in- 
duced to  bestow,  and  was  too  loyal  and  honest 
ever  to  admit  in  his  soul  the  slightest  suspicion 
that  he  had  been  either  hasty  or  unwise. 

There  the  four  sat  and  talked  pleasantly  in 
the  soft  golden  light,  while  the  waves  sang,  and 
the  breeze  whispered  of  the  Italian  plains  across 
which  it  had  blown.  Nathalie  threw  aside  her 
listlessness,  because  Elizabeth  was  attracting  at- 
tention, and  set  herself  to  the  task  of  fascinating 
the  two  elderly  gentlemen — a  task  in  which  she 
succeeded  without  difficulty. 

It  did  not  occur  to  Elizabeth  to  be  jealous  of 
her  success ;  she  enjoyed  the  creature's  gay 
chatter  as  much  as  either  of  their  companions, 
and  Nathalie  saw  that. 

"How  different  she  is  from  me,"  mused  the 
girl;  "now  I  should  have  hated  her  if  I  had 
not  succeeded  in  attracting  their  attention  from 
her.  Ah,  well ;  one's  character  is  one's  charac- 
ter ;  it  is  useless  to  struggle  against  it." 

Mr.  Crauford  brought  her  away  from  her 
doubtful  philosophy  by  observing,  "  I  trust  we 
shall  soon  have  the  pleasure  of  making  your 
mother's  acquaintance,  Mademoiselle." 

The  conversation  was  earned  on  wholly  in 
French,  because  Monsieur  La  Tour,  Gaul-like, 
was  beautifully  ignorant  of  any  language  except 
his  own.  As  soon  as  he  attempted  a  labored 
or  complimerftary  speech,  Mr.  Crauford's  accent 
was  so  very  marked  that  Nathalie  had  much  ado 
not  to  mimic  it.  She  was  only  deterred  by  the 
fear  of  offending  Elizabeth,  and  her  momentary 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


33 


struggle  between  her  impulse  and  her  dread  kept 
her  silent  till  Monsieur  La  Tour,  thinking  that 
he  understood  the  cause  of  her  hesitation,  hast- 
ened to  add — 

"The  poor  Madame  is  so  terrible  a  sufferer! 
Nothing  could  gratify  her  more,  I  am  convinced, 
than  to  share  in  the  enjoyment  which  is  just  now 
permitted  to  Mademoiselle  and  myself."  Here 
he  bowed,  first  to  Elizabeth,  then  to  her  father, 
by  way  of  emphasizing  his  words.  "  But  her 
nerves  are  in  a  sad  state.  She  would  gladly 
have  come  out  to-day — an  attack  of  pain  pre- 
vented— made  it  necessary  even  for  us  both  to 
leave  her." 

"I  know  how  to  sympathize  with  illness," 
returned  Mr.  Crauford,  in  a  martyr-like  voice. 

"Each  is  worse  than  the  other,"  thought 
Nathalie.  "Oh,  I  certainly  would  tie  their  coat- 
tails  together  if  it  were  not  for  Elizabeth ! "  Then 
aloud,  "Poor  mamma;  it  is  dreadful!  And  I 
am  such  a  selfish  little  monster.  I  get  away  al- 
ways when  she  is  suffering  from  her  attacks." 

"Dear  Mademoiselle,  only  because  you  can 
not  aid.  If  there  were  any  thing  you  could  do, 
you  would  remain,"  said  Monsieur,  fearful  that 
her  careless  speech  might  produce  an  unpleasant 
effect  on  the  strangers. 

"Please,  do  not  try  to  make  me  out  good," 
cried  Nathalie,  "  else  I  shall  disgrace  myself  and 
horrify  you  all  immediately." 

Monsieur  was  shocked ;  he  never  could  accus- 
tom himself  to  Nathalie's  conversation.  He  was 
relieved  when  Mr.  Crauford  and  Elizabeth  laughed 
heartily. 

"Ah,"  thought  Monsieur,  "it  must  be  the 
esprit  Ame'ricain;  they  seem  to  comprehend  her. 
A  wild,  rebellious  nation  those  Americans.  I 
am  glad  that  little  Nathalie  is  a.t  least  half 
French." 

At  length  Mr.  Crauford  proposed  a  game  of 
chess.  A  table  was  brought  out  under  the  wal- 
nut-trees, and  the  two  gentlemen  soon  became 
so  absorbed  in  their  occupation  that  the  girls 
wandered  away  unnoticed  to  the  edge  of  the 
lake. 

"Now,  let  us  talk,"  said  Nathalie,  as  they  sat 
clown  beneath  the  great  willow.  "We've  not 
even  Margot  to  bother  us,  so  we  need  not  con- 
fine ourselves  to  English.  When  I  feel  wicked, 
I  prefer  to  speak  French;  and  to-day  I  feel 
wicked." 

"Do  you  mean  cross — fractious?" 

"No,  no;  wicked!  Don't  you  understand? 
As  my  countrywoman  felt  when  she  said  she 
could  enjoy  cold  water  if  only  it  were  a  sin  to 
drink  it.  Now  you  look  shocked — are  you  ?" 

"Puzzled  rather,  I  think,"  replied  Elizabeth. 

"I  fancy  you  could  not  comprehend  the  feel- 
ing I  want  to  express, "  said  Nathalie,  complacent- 
ly. "To  be  sure  it  is  all  theory  with  me  yet, 
but  then  my  theories  are  immense." 

"  In  regard  to  what  ?" 
C 


"Every  thing!  Life — marriage — freedom!" 
cried  Nathalie,  her  eyes  shining,  and  the  beauti- 
ful rose  tints  deepening  in  her  cheeks. 

"No,"  said  Elizabeth  austerely;  "I  do  not 
comprehend  you." 

"You  look  horrified  again,"  exclaimed  Na- 
thalie gayly.  "  You  disapprove  of  what  I  said. 
I  forget  each  instant  that  we  are  strangers ;  but, 
bah !  friendship  does  not  count  by  time — either 
one  is  fond  of  a  person  or  one  is  not.  When  I 
fall  in  love,  I  mean  it  to  be  at  a  look — a  glance 
— how  do  you  say  ? — first  sight. " 

' '  Please  to  remember  that  you  were  just  speak- 
ing of  your  marriage,"  retorted  Miss  Crauford, 
austerely. 

"  Qu'est-ce  que  fa  fait  ?  Uun  nempeche  pas 
rautre,"  cried  Nathalie,  with  a  merry  laugh. 
"As  if  a  woman  were  expected  to  love  her  own 
husband — bah,  how  tame!" 

Elizabeth  was  accustomed  to  such  sentiments 
in  French  novels,  and  certain  English  ones,  but 
a  little  startled  at  hearing  them  so  calmly  enun- 
ciated by  this  childish-looking  creature,  yet  some- 
what curious,  too,  to  hear  how  far  she  would  go 
in  her  borrowed  theories. 

"Are  you  more  horrified  than  ever?"  con- 
tinued Nathalie,  not  trusting  herself  to  the  cold 
Saxon  accents  again. 

"  I  think  you  are  talking  great  nonsense,"  re- 
turned Elizabeth. 

"Not  nonsense  at  all!"  exclaimed  the  other. 
"  It  is  a  truth — a  solemn  truth,  if  you  will.  Is 
it  our  fault?  We  young  girls  are  dragged  out 
like  slaves  in  a  market.  Some  wretched  old 
Mohammedan  intimates  to  our  parents  that  he 
will  take  us  with  such  and  such  a  dot — the  mat- 
ter is  arranged.  'Mademoiselle,'  says  the  par- 
ent, 'behold  your  husband!'  This  is  the  first 
the  girl  has  heard  of  the  business.  What  can 
she  do  ?  She  is  given  to  him — disgusting !" 

Her  eyes  flashed,  her  cheeks  blazed.  Eliza- 
beth would  have  sympathized  with  her  more 
deeply  only  that  she  felt  convinced  the  girl  was 
talking  out  of  a  novel,  not  expressing  any  deep 
personal  dread  or  conviction. 

"Do  I  not  know?"  pursued  Nathalie.  "It 
was  thus  with  me.  Monsieur  La  Tour  was  pre- 
sented— not  on  trial,  not  that  I  might  try  and 
learn  to  like  him,  but  as  my  affianced  husband. 
Do  you  not  consider  that  awful  ?" 

"What  did  you  do?"  asked  Elizabeth,  rather 
Jesuitically. 

"Do  ?  I  ?  Ah,  well,  just  for  the  time  I 
was  so  busy  admiring  a  beautiful  diamond  ring 
he  gave  me  —  this  is  it  —  that  I  did  not  think 
much.  I  had  always  been  insane  to  possess  a  dia- 
mond ring — Marie  de  Conrcelles  had  one  in  the 
convent,  and  was  so  proud !" 

She  caught  Elizabeth's  somewhat  cynical 
smile,  and  stopped. 

"I  wept  bitterly  enough  when  he  was  gone," 
she  continued,  after  a  pause;  "but  was  I  not 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


powerless?  Then  opposition  made  mamma  so 
ill  that  I  dared  not  let  her  see  my  misery." 

"Are  you  so  very  unhappy  now  ?"  asked  Eliz- 
abeth. 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  do  not  much  mind,"  replied  Na- 
thalie, laughing.  "One  must  marry— as  well 
Monsieur  La  Tour  as  another.  Only  he  thinks 
to  bury  me  alive  in  that  dull  provincial  town. 
I  say  nothing ;  but  he  will  see.  Mamma  says, 
once  married  I  can  do  what  I  please  with  him ; 
on  that  account  an  elderly  husband  is  much 
more  commode  than  a  young  one." 

"  You  want  to  live  in  Paris,  I  suppose  ?'' 

"  Of  course  ;  could  one  exist  elsewhere  ?  I 
mean  to  have  a  salon— be  a  power— gather  the 
lights  of  the  literary  world  about  me.  I  do  not 
care  much  for  women,  but  there  are  a  few  I  will 
have.  I  have  arranged  it  all." 

"If  Monsieur  La  Tour  consent!" 

"  If  he  do  not — "  she  began,  in  a  hard  voice, 
which  scarcely  sounded  like  hers,  then  laughed, 
and  added  carelessly — "Alors,  tant  pis  pour  lui  ! 
But  never  mind  him.  Do  you  know  the  works 
of—"  , 

She  ran  glibly  over  certain  names  which  I 
will  not  set  down — names  that  were  only  such 
to  Elizabeth. 

"It  is  not  possiie  you  have  read  those  books?" 
she  exclaimed. 

"What  a  child  you  are !  I  have  read  every 
thing !  We  had  a  club  in  the  convent ;  most 
of  our  books  came  through  Blanche  de  Savigny's 
cousin  —  an  angel,  a  god!  He  and  Blanche 
adore  one  another ;  but  Blanche  is  to  marry  a 
duke,  an  uglier  man  than  Monsieur  La  Tour. 
But  she  will  not  give  up  her  cousin,  she  is  quite 
determined  on  that." 

"  You  mean — " 

"  I  mean  jnst  what  I  said  !  It  is  plain  that 
you  know  nothing.  They  tell  me  American  girls 
have  odd  ideas ;  that  once  married,  they  settle 
down  patiently  into  a  humdrum  life— si  bete! 
Blanche's  aunt  told  her — " 

"I  do  not  wish  to  hear  such  talk,"  interrupt- 
ed Elizabeth. 

"Ah,  do  not  be  prudish,  else  I  shall  hate  you. 
But  it  is  no  matter.  I  could  not  explain  what 
Blanche  said,  for  I  did  not  understand  myself, 
but  she  did.  I  never  met  a  girl  so  wise  as 
Blanche,"  and  Nathalie  gave  a  sigh  expressive 
of  admiration  for  Blanche's  wisdom  and  regret 
at  her  own  ignorance.  "But  she  is  an  impas- 
sioned nature,  and  I  am  snow,  Blanche  says.  She 
says  if  I  run  away  from  my  husband,  or  make 
an  etclandre,  it  will  be  just  from  pity  for  some 
one — " 

"What  a  horrible  creature  she  must  be  —  a 
monster!"  broke  in  Elizabeth,with  indignant  en- 
ergy. "  If  she  were  still  in  the  convent,  I  would 
write  to  the  Superior,  and  tell  her  to  be  careful 
that  girl  did  not  teach  others  such  things  as 
she  has  you." 


Nathalie  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  hummed 
a  few  bars  of  a  gay  song. 

"Eh,  if  you  go  about  setting  trifles  to  rights," 
said  she,  "you  will  lose  all  power  of  seeing  and 
fighting  against  great  evils — it  makes  one  small ! 
A  grain  more  or  less  of  wickedness  is  not  of 
much  consequence." 

"I  don't  think  we  should  agree  with  or  even 
understand  each  other's  ideas  on  these  sub- 
jects," returned  Miss  Crauford  coldly. 

"Possibly  not,"  assented  Nathalie,  with  com- 
placency. "It  requires  a  good  deal  of  thought 
and  study  to  see  clearly  from  my  stand-point. 
You  may  blame  Blanche  as  much  as  you  like, 
but  I  owe  her  a  great  deal.  She  is  not  a  genius 
herself,  but  she  makes  others  conscious  of  their 
genius." 

Elizabeth  burst  out  laughing.  Nathalie  look- 
ed first  vexed,  then  scornful  of  her  companion's 
lack  of  comprehension,  then  suddenly  joined  in 
the  merriment. 

"I  forget  you  did  not  know  I  was  a  genius," 
said  she  ;  "  but  I  am,  all  the  same." 

Elizabeth  bowed  mockingly.  Nathalie  turned 
away  her  head  and  remained  silent  for  an  un- 
precedented length  of  time,  in  her  companion's 
brief  knowledge  of  her.  When  Miss  Crauford 
spoke,  she  started,  and  said  reproachfully — 

"You  brought  me  out  of  a  dream — such  an 
odd  dream !" 

"You  dream  altogether  too  much,"  eluded 
Elizabeth. 

"  Would  you  know  your  destiny  if  you  could  ?'* 
demanded  Nathalie.  "I  have  been  thinking 
such  strange  things — seeing  them,  I  mean.  I 
am  sure  it  was  a  vision.  Give  me  your  hand, 
Queenie." 

"Only  be  quick  about  it,  Sibyl,"  she  said, 
playfully. 

Nathalie  peered  earnestly  into  the  white  palm 
which  Elizabeth  extended. 

"You  will  have  great  suffering,"  she  said, 
slowly.  "I  see  the  lines — here  and  here — ah, 
poor  Queenie  !  Oh  !  I  had  forgotten — my  pre- 
sentiment !  I  hope  the  trouble  will  not  come 
through  me !  Go  away — go  away — do  not  ever 
come  near  me  again  !" 

She  flung  Elizabeth's  hand  from  her  and  start- 
ed to  her  feet.  She  had  grown  very  pale,  and 
her  sensitive  features  worked  painfully. 

"  How  childish  you  are !"  Miss  Crauford  ex- 
claimed, with  a  certain  compassionate  scorn  in 
her  voice. 

"  It  is  not  childish  !  I  dreamed  about  it  last 
night — I  remember  now !  I  wish  I  had  never 
seen  you — never !" 

Elizabeth  could  not  decide  whether  the  girl 
were  fond  of  melodrama,  or  had  read  doubtful 
novels  until  her  brain  was  a  little  disturbed. 
Still  Nathalie's  character  presented  a  study  so 
new  to  her  limited  experience  that  she  felt  won- 
derfully attracted  even  by  her  follies. 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


"Suppose  we  go  in,"  she  observed,  in  a  mat- 
ter-of-fact tone;  "that  will  be  more  sensible 
than  trying  to  frighten  ourselves  with  fanciful 
ideas  and  superstitions." 

"You  reject  my  warning — you  refuse  to  be- 
lieve!" cried  Nathalie.  "So  much  the  worse 
for  both — so  much  the  worse !" 

Her  face  darkened ;  she  stood  staring  straight 
before  her,  trembling,  shuddering,  as  if  some 
weird  phantasmagoria  unfolded  itself  to  her  gaze. 

"Nathalie!"  exclaimed  Miss  Crauford,  a  lit- 
tle alarmed. 

The  girl  sank  back  on  the  bench,  and  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands,  shivering  and  gasping 
still.  Presently  she  began  to  laugh  in  a  rather 
hysterical  fashion. 

"It  is  gone!"  she  said,  looking  up  again.  "I 
do  not  know  what  I  saw — something  dreadful 
— but  it  is  gone.  Blanche  always  vowed  I  was 
a  medium  or  a  mesmerist :  I  am  very  odd,  I 
know.  Do  not  mind  —  let  us  talk  of  other 
things." 

"I  do  not  mind  in  the  least,"  retorted  Eliza- 
beth, determined  to  be  severely  practical,  by  way 
of  bringing  the  other  out  of  these  heroics. 

"You  laugh  —  you  jest!"  cried  Nathalie,  in 
an  irritated  voice.  "  But  let  the  matter  go.  I 
will  do  you  no  harm — I  am  determined  that  I 
will  not."  Then,  after  an  instant,  she  added  in 
a  complacent  tone — "But  I  suppose  I  shall  be 
a  very  wicked  woman  all  the  same — oh,  very 
wicked. " 

"  I  never  heard  a  girl  talk  such  nonsense  in 
my  life,"  returned  Miss  Crauford,  horrified  in 
earnest  now.  "You  will  end  in  a  lunatic  asy- 
lum if  you  do  not  stop  living  dramatics  and  a 
hash  of  sentiment  and  transcendentalism." 

"Ah,  I  have  read  Kant,"  exclaimed  Nathalie. 
"I  have  read  Comte  too.  I  am  a  Socialist — 
oh,  a  Socialist  acharne  !  My  first  book  will  be 
a  Socialistic  romance ;  my  second,  Blanche's  bi- 
ography ;  my  third — " 

Elizabeth  was  laughing  so  heartily  by  this 
time  that  Nathalie  left  hflfr  third  work  unnamed, 
and  joined  in  the  merriment  with  childish  glee. 

"It  is  true,  though,"  she  persisted.  "You 
think  I  am  a  goose  ;  but  I  shall  write  books — 
many  of  them." 

"Oh,  your  being  a  goose  would  not  prevent 
that,"  interrupted  Miss  Crauford  in  sarcastic 
parenthesis. 

"But  let  me  tell  you  about  my  third  novel." 

"No  ;  those  two  are  quite  enough.  The  idea 
of  Mademoiselle  Blanche's  biography  is  over- 
powering. " 

"You  do  not  appreciate  me,  Elizabeth!" 
sighed  Nathalie,  with  a  resignation  that  was 
exceedingly  comical. 

"You  must  pity  my  inability,"  laughed  Miss 
Crauford. 

But  further  words  were  checked  by  loud  repe- 
titions of  Nathalie's  name. 


"  It  is  Susanne,"  said  the  girl,  starting  up. 

"And  Monsieur  La  Tour,"  added  Elizabeth. 
"  What  can  be  the  matter  ?" 

Both  were  frightened,  and  hurried  toward  the 
chalet  from  whence  the  summons  proceeded. 
Nathalie  flew  on  into  the  house ;  Elizabeth  found 
her  father  rubbing  his  left  arm,  regarding  the 
chess-table  which  had  been  upset,  and  looking 
at  once  alarmed  and  indignant.  He  could  give 
slight  explanation.  They  had  reached  the  most 
exciting  point  of  their  game  ;  'suddenly  Mon- 
sieur had  observed  that  Madame  L'Estrange  was 
coming  out  on  the  gallery.  Mr.  Crauford  turned 
to  look — heard  a  dreadful  shriek — saw  a  female 
figure  totter  back.  Monsieur  had  knocked  the 
table  over,  and  hurt  Mr.  Crauford's  neuralgic 
arm.  That  crazy  old  servant  had  rushed  out 
screaming  —  Monsieur  had  screamed,  and  that 
was  all  Mr.  Crauford  could  tell,  only  that  he  was 
much  offended  by  the  whole  performance.  If 
Madame  L'Estrange  wished  to  faint,  she  ought 
to  choose  her  seasons  better,  and  not  interrupt 
his  game  of  chess,  and  cause  him  to  be  deafened 
by  an  insane  noise,  not  to  mention  the  serious 
injury  to  his  arm.  It  was  very  inconsiderate,  to 
say  the  least,  and  disgustingly  French. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AN   UNEXPECTED    DELAY^ 

THE  next  days  were  pleasant  ones  at  La  Ma- 
ladeyre.  Such  excursions  as  could  be  made  in 
carriages  were  not  objected  to  either  by  Mr. 
Crauford  or  Monsieur,  and  Nathalie  was  kept  in 
high  spirits  by  the  unusual  excitement. 

The  Frenchman  wished  to  present  his  old  ac- 
quaintance to  Madame,  but  Madame  put  him 
off  each  morning  with  new  excuses,  and  he  at 
last  settled  down  upon  the  conviction  that  it  was 
a  pain  to  her  to  see  strangers  now  she  had  lost 
the  beauty  and  gnyety  which  she  never  ceased 
lamenting  even  in  the  midst  of  her  loudest  re- 
nunciation of  the  vanities  of  this  mundane  sphere. 
Neither  Mr.  Crauford  nor  Elizabeth  perceived 
any  thing  surprising  in  Madame's  refusal ;  in- 
deed, it  was  only  a  delay  always — a  pleasure  de- 
ferred. She  was  constantly  hoping  to  be  well 
enough  to  receive  Monsieur  La  Tour's  friend, 
and  he  and  Nathalie  were  daily  the  bearers  of 
elaborately  civil  messages  both  to  father  and 
daughter.  In  truth,  poor  Madame  was  almost 
wholly  confined  to  her  rooms.  The  motion  of 
a  carriage  was  insupportable  —  a  Bath  -  chair 
her  detestation.  Once  in  a  while  she  could 
walk  about  the  lawn  supported  by  her  future 
son-in-law  and  Susanne;  but  delicacy  kept  the 
Craufords  from  intruding  at  such  times. 

Elizabeth  was  at  length  permitted  to  see  her. 
Madame  was  feeling  unusually  strong  one  after- 
noon, had  caused  herself  to  be  arrayed  in  a  be- 


SG 


MB.VAUGHAJTS  HEIR, 


coming  toilet,  and  hearing  from  Susanne  that 
Miss  Crauford  was  in  the  salon  with  Nathalie, 
she  sent  for  them  both  to  her  own  parlor  at  the 
back  of  the  chalet. 

It  was  a  spectacle  Elizabeth  did  not  soon  for- 
get. £he  wondered  that  Nathalie  and  Monsieur 
could  become  enough  accustomed  to  it  not  to 
mind.  Madame  sat  up  among  her  bright  dra- 
peries to  receive  the  young  American,  her  griz- 
zled hair  carefully  dressed,  her  attitude  theatric- 
ally graceful,  pouring  out  a  torrent  of  pretty 
speeches,  playing  with  the  rings  that  decorated 
her  bony  fingers,  smiling,  nodding,  talking  trivi- 
alities one  instant  and  quoting  scraps  from  dole- 
ful sermons  the  next.  Altogether  she  was  such 
a  bundle  of  awful  contrasts  and  incongruities 
that  Elizabeth  felt  as  if  she  were  undergoing  an 
interview  with  a  skeleton  galvanized  into  a  spas- 
modic semblance  of  life,  rendered  more  painful 
by  the  effort  to  hide  its  ghastliness  under  paint 
and  fanciful  decorations. 

The  curtains  were  drawn,  and  the  room  so 
dark  that,  entering  from  the  brightness  of  the 
sunny  gallery,  Elizabeth  could  at  first  distinguish 
nothing  whatever. 

"Why,  mamma,"  called  Nathalie  impatiently, 
"we  shall  break  our  necks — it  is  a  dungeon! 
Why  has  that  fo|fcsh  Susanue  shut  you  up  like 
this  ?  Where  are  yon,  Susanne  ?" 

"  Of  course  it  is  the  fault  of  Susanne — blame 
her ;  every  thing  is  always  the  fault  of  Susanne, " 
grumbled  that  worthy  female  from  her  corner, 
for  Snsanne  had  no  idea  of  obeying  the  advice  of 
St.  Peter,  which  urges  us  to  suffer  wrong  in  si- 
lence. 

"Chttt!"  said  Madame.  "Our  visitor  will 
think  she  has  got  into  a  mad-house  instead  of  a 


Come  here,  Nathalie,  and 
This  is  a  great,  great  pleas- 


dull  invalid  -  room, 
bring^  Mademoiselle, 
are — '' 

"Now,  mamma,"  interrupted  Nathalie,  "do 
not  talk  about  seeing  her,  because  it  is  utterly 
impossible  to  see  any  body  in  this  gloom." 

But  as  Elizabeth's  eyes  became  accustomed  to 
the  obscurity,  she  could  perceive  the  emaciated 
shape  propped  up  among  the  pillows,  and  was 
almost  startled  for  an  instant.  Somehow  in  the 
shadows,  Madame,  with  her  rouge,  her  scarlet 
shawls,  and  her  skeleton  head,  was  more  appall- 
ing than  she  would  have  been  in  the  broad  light 
of  day.  Nathalie,  perhaps,  noticed  this  too ;  she 
pushed  back  one  of  the  curtains  in  spite  of  a 
rapid  expostulation  from  her  mother. 

"At  least  Mademoiselle  will  not  think  we 
have  designs  on  her  life,"  she  said.  "Besides, 
that  was  nn  awful  light,  or  darkness  rather ;  it 
mode  us  all  look  ns  if  we  had  been  dead  a  week." 

"Be  still,  child,  be  still,"  cried  Madame. 
"  Do  not  use  such  dreadful  language." 

By  this  time  Elizabeth  had  reached  the  sofa. 
Madame  was  extending  that  bony  hand  which  it 
required  an  effort  to  touch,  and  Madame's  great 


sunken  eyes  were  looking  curiously  at  her ;  un- 
comfortable eyes  to  have  fixed  upon  one,  their 
fire  seemed  so  out  of  keeping  with  the  thin,  ghast- 
ly face. 

"Dear  Mademoiselle,  it  is  so  good  of  you  to 
come  to  me — so  very  good, "  Madame  said  over 
and  over,  still  retaining  her  hand,  and  glaring  at 
her  with  that  attempt  at  a  smile  which  was  more 
like  a  spasm  than  any  thing  else.  "I  love  the 
Americans — they  have  always  been  a  mania  of 
mine  :  is  it  not  so,  Nathalie,  my  child  ?" 

"  I  can  not  tell,  mamma ;  I  have  not  known 
you  all  your  life,"  returned  Nathalie,  who  was  in 
one  of  her  impossible  moods. 

"  She  is  half  American,  that  bad  girl,"  laughed 
Madame,  "though  I  am  sure  her  naughtiness  is 
entirely  French.  But  yon  are  standing,  dear 
Mademoiselle.  I  entreat  you  not  to  stand — I 
implore!" 

Madame  was  as  earnest  and  beseeching  as  if 
she  had  been  begging  her  visitor  to  step  out  of 
the  fire  or  away  from  a  precipice,  but  Elizabeth 
was  accustomed  to  these  little  exaggerations  of 
tone  and  words  among  the  Gallic  race. 

Susanne  sat  upright  in  her  corner,  knitting  as 
if  her  daily  bread  depended  upon  her  industry, 
for  Susanne  was  in  an  ill-humor  to-day,  and  at 
such  times  always  knitted  violently.  Nathalie 
leaned  on  the  window-sill,  and  peered  out  be- 
tween the  half-closed  shutters,  and  wished  the 
world  would  come  to  an  end — for  no  particular 
reason  that  she  knew ;  but  Nathalie's  spirits 
went  up  and  down  as  irregularly  and  irrationally 
as  a  barometer  that  is  out  of  order.  Elizabeth 
remained  by  the  sofa,  and  endured  as  best  she 
might  the  feverish  glare  of  Madame's  eyes,  and 
followed  as  well  as  she  could  the  rapid  changes 
of  Madame's  conversation. 

"You  can  not  think  how  you  remind  me  of — " 

Madame  uttered  this  beginning  in  the  midst 
of  talk  about  Nathalie's  marriage,  and  checked 
herself  as  abruptly  as  she  had  commenced. 

"Of  whom  does  she  remind  you,  mamma?" 
asked  Nathalie,  who  %ad  looked  back  just  in 
time  to  catch  the  broken  sentence. 

"I  can  not  tell — yon  know  it  always  tires  me 
to  think,"  returned  Madame,  peevishly.  She 
resumed  the  explanation  of  Nathalie's  prospects, 
and  Nathalie  took  refuge  in  the  window  again. 

"  It  is  bad  enough  to  be  married,"  she  thought, 
"without  living  it  all  over  forty  times  each  day 
in  advance." 

Madame  asked  Elizabeth  a  great  many  ques- 
tions—  about  her  age,  her  life,  her  father;  but 
Madame's  tact  caused  them  to  sound  like  inqui- 
ries dictated  by  profound  interest  and  budding 
affection  instead  of  vulgar  curiosity. 

"You  have  been  so  kind  to  my  spoiled  infant 
yonder,  and  she  has  talked  of  you  so  much,  that 
I  seem  to  know  you  well  already, "said  Madame. 
"  You  see  I  find  I  have  grown  fond  of  you  ill 
advance." 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


37 


Elizabeth  turned  her  eyes  away  to  avoid  the 
spasmodic  smile,  and  thanked  Madame  for  her 
graciousness. 

"Finding  Mademoiselle  Nathalie  here  has 
been  a  great  pleasure  to  me,"  she  said. 

"You  are  good  to  say  so,  adorable!"  cried 
Madame.  "Nathalie  is  a  dear  creature,  but  so 
spoiled — a  child — a  baby!  She  has  lived  all  her 
life  in  a  convent,  and  knows  no  more  of  the  real 
world  than  an  infant." 

From  the  corner  where  Susanne  sat  knitting, 
like  a  grim  representation  of  Industry,  came  a 
low,  sardonic  chuckle. 

"Are  you  coughing — have  you  taken  cold, 
Susanne  ?"  demanded  Madame,  in  a  voice  of  aw- 
ful politeness  and  interest. 

"I  choked — I  think  I  swallowed  a  bit  of 
yarn,"  replied  Susanne,  unhesitatingly  and  very 
crossly. 

"  Susanne  is  laughing  at  the  idea  of  my  inno- 
cence and  ignorance — I  don't  wonder,"  observed 
Nathalie,  putting  her  head  into  the  room  again. 

"Fie,  for  shame,  beloved!"  exclaimed  Ma- 
dame anxiously.  "AVhat  will  Mees  Crauford 
think  ?"  Madame  spoke  in  French,  but  she 
thought  that  "Mees"  was  a  neat  bit  of  English 
— it  was  her  only  one. 

"She  knows  me  pretty  well  by  this  time," 
laughed  Nathalie.  "Besides,  Susanne  can  not 
deny  that  was  what  she  laughed  at. " 

"I  said  I  choked,  Mademoiselle,"  retorted 
Susanne  stoutly. 

"  I  know  you  said  so  !" 

"And  I  never  tell  lies,"  added  Susanne.  "  I 
beg  that  Mademoiselle  will  not  quarrel  with  me ; 
I  am  busy." 

"Very  well,"  said  Nathalie;  "I  only  wanted 
to  settle  the  question  of  my  babyish  innocence." 

"A  mere  baby!"  repeated  Madame. 

Once  more  a  bit  of  yarn  got  in  Susanne's 
throat,  else  she  chuckled. 

"Susanne,"  said  her  mistress,  "you  have  a 
cold  assuredly ;  I  shall  give  you  some  of  those 
drops." 

Susanne  rose,  made  a  neat  roll  of  her  knitting, 
and  laid  it  on  a  table. 

"  Farewell,  Madame  and  Mademoiselles,"  said 
she. 

"  Where  go  you?"  demanded  Madame. 

"To  drown  myself,"  quoth  Susanne,  calmly. 
"  I  told  Madame  that  if  she  ever  again  insisted 
on  my  taking  those  drops  I  should  drown  my- 
self— the  time  has  come." 

"  Go  get  some  of  mamma's  cura9oa  instead," 
said  Nathalie.  "  You  like  cura9oa,  Elizabeth  ? 
I  am  a  baby,  but  I  would  intoxicate  myself  with 
it  every  day  if  mamma  gave  me  the  opportu- 
nity." 

First  Madame  laughed  at  all  the  nonsense ; 
then  a  pain  seized  her,  and  she  grew  grave. 

"I  am  a  dying  woman,  Mees  Crauford!"  she 
exclaimed,  so  suddenly,  and  with  such  despairing 


emphasis,  that  Elizabeth's  first  thought  was  some 
vague  one  of  rushing  for  the  doctor.  "I  have 
done  with  the  world — I  ought  not  even  to  laugh  ! 
I  try  to  make  my  salvation  ;  I  said  at  least  fif- 
teen Hail  Marys  last  night  each  time  I  awoke. 
Ah,  it  is  dreary  work  making  one's  salvation ; 
but  you  know  nothing  about  that  yet — you  are 
young  and  strong." 

She  looked  at  Elizabeth  with  an  envious  glare 
in  her  eyes — she  often  looked  at  Nathalie  like 
that.  There  were  moments  when  it  was  not 
easy  for  Madame  to  avoid  hating  any  body  who 
still  retained  those  blessings  she  had  lost — health 
and  youth. 

"They  ought  not  to  be  severe  on  me,  they 
ought  not,"  she  muttered.  "I  try  so  hard — 
Monsieur  le  Cure'  says  I  try." 

"Taste  of  the  cura9oa,  mamma,"  urged  Na- 
thalie, bringing  her  a  tiny  glass  of  the  grateful 
cordial.  "  Is  it  not  good,  Elizabeth  ?  Monsieur 
La  Tour  gets  it  for  mamma ;  he  is  useful  in  his 
way,  is  Monsieur. " 

"He  is  an  angel!"  exclaimed  Madame,  with 
as  much  energy  as  if  no  thought  of  purgatorial 
pains  had  ever  tormented  her.  "Mees  Crau- 
ford, is  not  this  child  a  fortunate  one?" 

"  I  like  Monsieur  La  Tour  exceedingly,"  Eliz- 
abeth replied.  "He  is  so  kind  and  gentle,  it 
would  be  impossible  not  to  like  him." 

"You  hear,  little  difficult?"  cried  Madame. 

"Yes,  mamma,  I  hear,"  returned  Nathalie, 
sipping  her  curacoa  contentedly.  "  But  just  ask 
Mademoiselle  how  she  would  like  to  many  this 
epitome  of  all  the  virtues." 

"Mademoiselle  could  have  no  thought  of  the 
kind  in  regard  to  a  man  who  is  affianced,"  said 
Madame  with  dignity. 

"That  comes  of  my  being  a  baby — you  see  I 
know  no  better,"  observed  Nathalie. 

"You  are  incorrigible!"  laughed  her  mother. 
"Where  is  Susanne?" 

"Drinking  cura9oa  behind  the  dining-rooin 
door,"  replied  Nathalie,  promptly. 

Susanne  put  in  her  head  with  an  indignant 
squeak. 

"I  never  so  much  as  smelled  of  the  cork," 
cried  she,  wiping  her  lips  as  she  spoke.  "  I  know 
I  shall  drown  myself  one  day.  I  can  not  bear 
such  constant  injustice  from  Mademoiselle." 

' '  I  shall  never  try  that  mode  when  my  time  for 
suicide  arrives,"  said  Nathalie.  "  Which  way 
should  you  choose,  Elizabeth?  Now,  Blanche 
always  declared — " 

"Do  not  talk  of  such  horrid  things, "moaned 
Madame.  "I  do  not  know  what  possesses  you 
and  Susanne  to-day !  The  doctor  says  I  am  to 
have  cheerful  conversation." 

It  seemed  to  both  her  daughter  and  sen-ant 
that  Miss  Crauford's  visit  made  Madame  tin- 
usually  nervous  and  excitable ;  still  she  would 
not  let  the  young  lady  go.  . 

"It  is  so  great  a  pleasure  to  me  to  see  you," 


38 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


she  said  several  times,  and  always  Elizabeth 
fancied  that  Madame  looked  as  if  she  would 
have  liked  to  bite  her.  "One  evening,  perhaps, 
I  shall  be  well  enough  to  receive  you  all— Mon- 
sieur Crauford  likewise.  I  think  I  am  stronger 
than  last  week.  Do  you  not  think  I  am  stronger, 
Susanne  ?" 

"Not  a  doubt  of  it,"  Susanne  replied  to  the 
inquiry  uttered  with  piteous  eagerness.  "Ma- 
dame is  very  much  stronger ;  I  said  so  only  yes- 
terday." 

Nathalie  sat  down  by  the  sofa,  and  passed  her 
arm  about  her  mother.  There  was  more  tender- 
ness in  face  and  gesture  than  Elizabeth  had  yet 
seen  her  exhibit. 

"I  have  not  been  a  bad  parent  to  you ;  I  have 
not,"  cried  Madame. 

"No,  no ;  a  dear  little  mamma— there,  there !" 
replied  Nathalie,  stroking  her  hair,  as  one  might 
endeavor  to  quiet  a  child. 

The  little  scene  touched  Elizabeth,  but  it  only 
lasted  a  moment.  Madame  gave  one  or  two  dry 
sobs ;  an  expression  made  up  of  terror  and  re- 
morse crossed  her  face ;  then  she  was  first  to  get 
away  from  the  softened  mood. 

"We  are  wearying  Mademoiselle,"  she  said. 
"You  can  not  think  that,"  Elizabeth  replied 
earnestly,  and  Madame  couid  see  that  the  sym- 
pathetic tears  had  gathered  in  her  eyes. 

Madame  looked  touched,  then  irritated ;  but 
she  was  altogether  so  odd  and  changeable  that 
Elizabeth  would  not  have  been  surprised  at  any 
vagary. 

"  Mademoiselle  has  a  tender  heart,"  she  sneer- 
ed. Nathalie  raised  her  head  at  the  altered  tone. 
Madame  added,  with  sudden  sweetness,  "  Love 
our  new  friend  well,  Nathalie ;  hers  is  a  rare 
nature." 

Nathalie  turned  and  gave  Elizabeth  a  laugh- 
ing embrace,  glad  to  escape  from  the  seriousnesi 
which  had  oppressed  her  for  a  little.  There  was 
a  strange  light  in  Madame's  eyes  as  she  watched 
the  two ;  then  as  quickly  she  made  a  sign  of  the 
cross.  Madame  knew  she  had  been  thinking 
wicked  things,  and  she  was  too  near  death  to 
allow  herself  that  privilege. 

"Monsieur  le  Curd  is  coming  up  the  road," 
called  Susanne  from  the  dining-room. 

"Ah,  put  away  the  cura9oa,  and  give  me  the 
Offerings  of  St.  Joseph,"  cried  Madame  to  her 
daughter. 

"But  the  Cure'  likes  cnra9oa,"  said  Nathalie ; 
"and  he  admitted  the  last  time  he  was  here 
that  he  thought  St.  Joseph's  meditations  very 
gloomy  ones." 

"So  he  did,"  assented  Madame,  relieved; 
then  in  a  changed  voice — "But  no  matter!  It 
ia  the  Cure's  business  to  console  me ;  I  need  con- 
solation !  -Give  me  St.  Joseph  !  He  shall  have 
no  cura9oa  unless  he  console  me — not  a  drop." 

"  I  am  going  out  to  walk  with  Miss  Crauford," 
•aid  Nathalie. 


"Yes  —  go,"  said  Madame.  "Adieu,  dear 
Mees,  thanks  a  thousand  times  for  this  visit ! 
Ah,  you  are  like — " 

She  had  taken  Elizabeth's  hand ;  she  dropped 
it  suddenly  with  a  glance  of  aversion. 

"  Like  whom,  mamma?"  persisted  Nathalie. 
"I  can  not  remember — I  forget  every  thing," 
replied  Madame,  querulously.  "Do  not  tease 
me,  child !  Adieu,  dear  Mees ;  you  are  an  angel 
of  goodness,  I  am  sure.  Ah,  I  am  a  miserable 
woman ;  broken  down,  old,  dying !  Where  is 
Monsieur  le  Cure'  ?  Why  does  he  not  come  to 
console  me?  That  is  his  business.  I  gave  a 
hundred  francs  to  his  new  church,  and  I  am 
poor ;  if  he  does  not  do  his  duty,  it  is  he  who 
will  go  to  purgatory.  Susanne,  Susanne,  take 
away  this  red  shawl,  and  bring  me  the  blue  one. 
Monsieur  le  Cure  likes  blue.  Quick ! — how  slow 
you  are !" 

The  two  girls  passed  out  through  the  dining- 
room,  and  went  down  the  flight  of  stairs  which 
was  the  usual  mode  of  egress  from  this  part  of 
the  chalet.  They  met  the  Cure  panting  up  the 
steep  staircase — a  jolly,  fat  man,  who  ought  to 
have  made  a  very  comfortable  and  indulgent  con- 
fessor. He  stopped  to  pay  them  both  a  quantity 
of  florid  compliments,  and  to  inquire  after  Mr. 
Crauford  and  Monsieur  La  Tour,  who  were  hav- 
ing a  quiet  game  of  chess  in  the  villa. 

"A  pair  of  rosebuds!"  cried  the  Cure,  before 
his  question  could  be  answered. 

"Elizabeth's  papa  and  Monsieur  La  Tour?" 
asked  Nathalie,  saucily. 

"  You  are  a  little  witch,"  said  the  Cure,  beam- 
ing. "I  go  to  see  the  dear  mamma;  is  she 
tolerably  comfortable  to-day  ?" 

"Oh,  yes;  but  please  persuade  her  not  to  be 
doleful,"  sighed  Nathalie.  "She  does  nothing 
but  repent,  and  I  am  sure  she  is  very  good.  If 
you  console  her  a  great  deal  she  will  give  you 
some  cura9oa — I  am  certain  she  will ;  and  it  is 
very  nice  too. " 

The  Cure  laughed  heartily,  and  went  his  way. 
"Well, well,"  he  thought,  "it  would  be  pleas- 
anter  if  one's  duty  lay  more  among  the  young 
and  happy  than  the  dying ;  but  I  hope  they  set 
it  all  right  for  us  somewhere  :  I  trust  they  do. " 
The  Cure  stopped  on  the  balcony,  took  a  pinch 
of  snuff,  and  glanced  up  at  the  sky.  He  was  a 
large-hearted,  easy-going  man,  and  liked  to  keep 
his  theology  as  mild  as  his  conscience  would  per- 
mit. I  am  afraid  the  Cure  would  have  abolished 
purgatory  altogether,  if  it  had  been  in  his  power, 
and  made  every  body  happy  in  this  world  and  the 
next.  He  was  careful,  however,  to  guard  such 
unorthodox  fancies  in  the  secrecy  of  his  soul, 
and  was  sometimes  shocked  at  his  own  wicked- 
ness in  indulging  in  wishes  of  that  nature. 

His  visit  cheered  Madame,  but  in  spite  of  it 
she  awoke  in  the  middle  of  the  night  from  a  bad 
dream,  and  was  very  ill.  She  wanted  the  Cure' 
and  doctor  sent  for  at  once,  convinced  that  both 


ME.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


body  ar.d  soul  were  in  a  bad  way ;  but  Susanne 
paid  no  attention,  aware  that  neither  authority 
could  be  of  the  least  use.  She  was  prepared 
with  the  necessary  remedies  for  those  crises,  and 
did  not  even  disturb  Nathalie,  certain  that  the 
girl  would  only  terrify  her  mother  by  her  fright. 

Frictions  with  liniment,  and  repeated  doses 
of  the  drops  and  cura9oa,  at  last  produced  their 
effect. 

"It  is  over  for  this  time,"  Madame  said  wea- 
rily. "  I  do  not  seem  to  get  any  weaker.  I 
should  think  I  may  last  a  long  time  yet." 

"There  is  no  doubt  of  it,  I  believe,"  returned 
Susanne,  rather  grimly.  It  was  this  power  of  en- 
durance, this  inability  on  the  part  of  Madame's 
physical  frame  to  wear  out,  which  aggravated 
the  old  woman :  she  thought  people  ought  to  die 
or  get  well. 

"Eh  Lien,"  thought  the  Breton,  when  her  mis- 
tress at  last  fell  asleep  from  sheer  exhaustion, 
"if  all  this  does  not  count  in  my  favor  in  this 
world  and  the  next,  Monsieur  La  Tour  is  a 
brute,  and  the  blessed  saints  are  no  better!" 

It  was  only  three  or  four  days  later  that  Ma- 
dame and  her  proposed  son-in-law  received  a  se- 
vere shock.  Monsieur  appeared  one  morning 
at  the  chalet  earlier  than  his  wont.  Elizabeth 
chanced  to  be  in  the  grounds  as  he  drove  up,  and 
perceived  that  he  looked  sorely  disturbed  and 
annoyed,  though  he  tripped  down  from  the  car- 
riage with  his  usual  alertness,  and  treated  her  to 
his  customary  eloquent  and  elaborate  greetings. 
Monsieur  always  reminded  Elizabeth  of  a  cross 
between  a  legal  gentleman  and  an  old  beau  of 
the  ancien  regime,  with  a  plain  wig  in  place  of 
a  powdered  one.  But  though  one  might  smile 
at  his  quaint  courtesies,  Monsieur  was  never  ri- 
diculous, and  Elizabeth  respected  him  highly. 

It  was  not  very  long  before  Nathalie  came  fly- 
ing out  of  the  chalet,  and  joined  Elizabeth  as  she 
walked  down  the  path  toward  the  lake.  Natha- 
lie's eyes  were  dancing,  and  her  face  lighted  up 
with  animation  and  excitement. 

"I  saw  you  from  the  window,"  said  she.  " I 
am  out  of  breath.  I  ran  away  fast,  fast,  for  fear 
mamma  should  stop  me.  "What  do  you  think 
has  happened  ?'' 

"I  have  not  the  slightest  idea.  Get  back 
your  breath  and  tell  me,"  replied  Elizabeth,  tran- 
quilly. 

"Figure  to  yourself,  my  dear — it  will  not  be 
s«on — it  is  put  off — unavoidably  put  off!" 

"It?     What?" 

"I  am  to  have  a  whole  month,  perhaps  six 
weeks,"  continued  Nathalie  in  triumph.  "Do 
you  not  understand  ?  The  marriage,  of  course. 
Fancy — only  fancy  it!" 

They  had  reached  the  poplar-tree  by  this  time. 
Elizabeth  sat  down  on  the  bench  which  encircled 
it,  and  looked  grave  and  reproachful. 

"Monsieur  is  obliged  to  go  into  Belgium," 
pursued  Nathalie,  on  whom  the  glance  was  ut- 


j  terly  wasted.  "A  relative  of  his  is  dying — a 
I  horrible  old  maid,  who  hated  every  body  and 
'  whom  every  body  hated.  I  am  sure  if  she  had 
lived  she  would  have  made  us  a  visit,  and  I  nev- 
'  er  could  have  borne  that." 

"Your  sympathy  must  be  a  sweet  and  sooth- 
ing thing  to  Monsieur  La  Tour,"  observed  Eliza- 
beth, sarcastically. 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  think  he  wants  sympathy  on 
account  of  that  dreadful  old  woman ;  but  he  has 
to  go  away.  She  wants  him,  and  she  has  mon- 
ey; it  is  his  by  right,  but  she  has  harpies  of 
relations  on  her  mother's  side  who  might  steal 
it." 

"I  think  he  would  go  in  any  case  if  she 
wished  it,"  Elizabeth  said. 

"Oh,  I  dare  say;  but  it  would  be  silly.  She 
lives  near  Brussels.  He  must  go  at  once,  so 
there  is  no  time  for  the  marriage ;  indeed,  it 
would  not  be  decent  under  the  circumstances, 
and  so  I  said;  neither  he  nor  mamma  could 
deny  it." 

"Oh  no !  Your  regard  for  the  proprieties  is 
most  edifying!" 

"You  are  vexed;  you  sneer!  But  I  shall 
have  at  least  a  month  —  more,  probably.  Only 
think  of  it,  my  beautiful !" 

"  Suppose  he  saw  you  at  this  moment,  and 
heard  you!'' 

"I  can  not  help  it!  I  said  several  decorous 
things ;  then  I  ran  away  for  fear  I  should  laugh. 
It  was  so  funny  to  see  mamma's  face  and  his, 
and  they  both  wept  a  little.  I  had  my  handker- 
chief at  my  eyes.  I  was  supposed  to  weep  also." 

"I  think  you  are  very  ungrateful  to  be  glad," 
returned  Elizabeth.  "I  saw  Monsieur  when  he 
drove  up  ;  he  looked  distressed  and  troubled." 

"No  doubt — it  was  his  duty;  he  could  do  no 
less, "  pronounced  Nathalie,  complacently.  ' '  But 
do  not  scold.  What  walks  we  will  have!  what 
donkey  rides!  Oh,  my  dear,  remember  I  shall 
have  the  bliss  of  Monsieur's  society  all  my  life — 
all  his  life,  I  mean — while  I  shall  only  have  you 
for  a  few  weeks !  Kiss  me  this  instant,  and  look 
pleased ;  at  least  you  need  not  kiss  me,  there  is 
always  something  so  tame  about  one  girl  em- 
bracing another ;  but  say  you  are  glad." 

"Personally,  yes;  but  that  is  selfish,  and  I 
am  sorry  for  poor  Monsieur,"  said  Elizabeth. 

"Well,  I  do  not  know,;l  observed  Nathalie, 
meditatively.  "I  have  an  idea  that  he  is  to  be 
congratulated,  if  he  could  only  think  so ;  it  is  a 
reprieve.  My  dear,  Monsieur  La  Tour  does  not 
seem  to  me  eminently  fitted  for  a  wild-beast  tam- 
er; and  I  do  assure  you,  in  confidence,  that  I 
fear  he  is  undertaking  a  whole  menagerie. " 

"And  I  think  all  this  talk  about  yourself  is 
nonsense,"  said  Elizabeth.  "  But  if  it  were  not, 
I  fancy  you  will  find  Monsieur  La  Tour  a  much 
more  determined  man  than  you  suppose  him." 

"Then  we  shall  quarrel  horribly.  At  least 
that  will  afford  a  little  variety,"  returned  Natha- 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


lie,  yawning.  "  Well,  I  must  go  back  now.  I 
only  ran  out  to  tell  you  while  he  and  mamma 
wore  off  the  first  edge  of  their  despair.  See,  I 
shall  look  decorously  grieved.  Will  not  this 
answer  ?" 

She  drew  her  face  down  in  such  a  caricatured 
assumption  of  melancholy  that  Elizabeth  could 
not  help  laughing,  though,  when  Nathalie  danced 
off,  she  was  obliged  to  think,  as  she  had  so  often 
done  since  their  first  meeting,  that  there  was 
much  to  disprove  of  in  the  girl.  But  severe 
as  Elizabeth  was  inclined  to  be  in  her  judgments, 
somehow  she  pitied  Nathalie  more  than  she 
blamed  her.  What  could  be  expected  of  any 
creature  with  a  mother  like  Madame?  And 
Elizabeth  shuddered  with  abhorrence  and  dis- 
gust. Then  she  felt  heartily  contrite ;  but  be  as 
sorry  as  she  would  for  the  physical  sufferings, 
there  was  something  loathsome  to  her  in  the  re- 
membrance of  that  skeleton  face,  with  its  rouged 
spots  and  the  frizzed  curls  adding  to  its  ghast- 
liness. 

There  was  not  much  time  for  Madame  and 
Monsieur  to  yield  to  their  anguish,  for  it  was 
necessary  that  he  should  set  out  the  next  morn- 
ing on  his  journey.  Indeed,  after  her  first  par- 
oxysm of  distress,  Madame  remembered  that 
the  death  of  this  relative  would  give  a  sensible 
increase  to  Monsieur's  fortune,  and  she  was  not 
sufficiently  weaned  from  this  world  and  its  vani- 
ties to  despise  that.  She  sighed  to  think  that  it 
was  not  likely  that  she  could  live  long  enough  to 
have  much  enjoyment  of  the  money,  and  she  felt 
a  fierce  resentment  rise  in  her  soul  as  she  glanced 
at  Monsieur — so  upright,  so  strong,  with  such 
hues  of  health  on  his  cheery  face,  lie  was  older 
than  she ;  what  business  had  he  to  look  so  well, 
and  seem  likely  to  live  for  the  next  twenty  years 
to  enjoy  his  fortune  ?  Then  she  waxed  penitent, 
and  tried  to  think  that  Paradise  must  be  a  pleas- 
ant place — perhaps  even  pleasanter  than  Paris ! 
But  then  Madame  knew  Paris,  and  she  was  not 
acquainted  with  the  other  blessed  abode.  Ah! 
why  could  she  not  be  allowed  to  seek  the  one 
she  liked !  It  was  all  very  well  for  people  to  go 
to  Heaven  who  were  not  contented  here;  but, 
for  Madame's  part,  give  her  decent  health  and 
enough  money,  and  she  would  not  grumble  at 
being  forgotten  by  death,  even  though  her  youth, 
her  beloved  youth,  was  gone  forever. 

Of  course  Monsieur  spent  the  afternoon  and 
evening  with  his  betrothed,  and  Nathalie  encour- 
aged herself  to  win  Elizabeth's  admiration  for 
her  discreet  behavior,  by  remembering  that  she 
would  have  the  next  day  and  many  next  days 
free  from  Monsieur's  society.  As  Madame's  in- 
valid state  did  not  permit  of  late  dinners,  Mon- 
sieur and  Nathalie  dined  at  the  villa,  by  Mr. 
Crauford's  invitation.  They  had  a  very  pleasant 
meal ;  Monsieur  tried  his  best  to  be  cheerful, 
though  it  touched  Elizabeth  to  see  how  his 
mouth  would  quiver  and  his  eyes  turn  pathet- 


ically upon  Nathalie,  ns  the  girl  laughed  and 
chattered,  champagne-glass  in  hand ;  for  Natha- 
lie had  a  gre.it  appreciation  of  good  things  in 
the  way  of  table  enjoyments. 

Then  Nathalie  and  Monsieur  had  to  return  to 
Madame,  and  Elizabeth  spent  the  evening  play- 
ing chess — which  she  hated — with  her  father, 
and  wondering  how  Nathalie  could  prove  so  ut- 
terly regardless  of  the  great  love  lavished  upon 
her. 

"  It  is  so  beautiful  to  be  loved,"  thought  Eliz- 
abeth. "A  woman  ought  to  be  proud  of  a  good 
man's  affection ;  and  the  contentment  and  rest 
would  be  so  much  sweeter  than  all  that  excite- 
ment and  passion  novels  are  so  full  of." 

Which  wisdom  showed  the  complete  igno- 
rance wherein  Miss  Crauford  had  lived,  so  far 
as  emotions  of  that  nature  were  concerned. 

Madame  dreaded  greatly  this  delay.  She  was 
morbidly  anxious  for  the  marriage  to  take  place  ; 
but  to  dwell  upon  the  money  Monsieur  was  go- 
ing to  claim  did  soothe  her  somewhat  at  the 
parting,  and  afterward  even  more. 

Still  it  was  a  miserable  business,  viewed  in  its 
best  light,  and  Madame  and  Monsieur  were  very 
wretched.  Nathalie  remained  as  lachrymose  as 
she  could,  though  her  gravity  was  often  sorely 
tried  to  see  how  odd  her  mother  looked  as  her 
tears  spotted  her  paint,  and  what  grimaces  Mon- 
sieur made  in  his  efforts  not  to  weep  also.  Be- 
sides, Susanne,  not  to  be  deceived  by  any  shal- 
low pretense,  passed  in  and  out  of  the  room  dh 
frequent  errands,  and  upon  each  occasion  favored 
Nathalie  with  such  glances  of  stern  reproof,  such 
scornful  consciousness  of  the  girl's  hypocrisy, 
that  Nathalie  would  have  given  the  world  for 
somebody  to  enjoy  the  whole  comedy  with  her. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"LA    CHAUDERON." 

ALMOST  four  weeks  went  by,  and  very  pleas- 
ant ones  they  were  to  Elizabeth.  Mr.  Crauford 
was  in  an  uncommonly  placid  mood,  the  dura- 
tion of  which  was  of  such  length  that  it  aston- 
ished his  daughter,  though  she  did  not  put  the 
matter  in  this  brutal  fashion.  It  was  a  better- 
ing of  papa's  health,  longer  freedom  than  usual 
from  nervous  pains,  and  similar  reasons,  or  well- 
sounding  names  rather,  such  as  Elizabeth  al- 
ways insisted  on  finding  for  her  parent's  ca- 
prices. He  even  worried  himself  and  her  less 
than  ordinary  by  his  indecision  upon  affairs  in 
general,  great  or  small,  from  the  important  doubt 
if  coffee  or  chocolate  would  best  agree  with  his 
"system"  of  a  morning,  up  to  debates  whether 
the  newly  invested  funds  should  be  drawn  out 
and  established  in  some  other  quarter. 

He  discovered  two  or  three  acquaintances 
staying  at  Vevay,  several  more  up  at  the  hotel 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


41 


"Lord  Byron,"  between  the  Castle  of  Chillon 
and  Villeneuve.  He  could  give  occasional  din- 
ners, and  indulge  now  and  then  in  a  game  of 
whist  in  the  evening.  He  had  a  poem  in  his 
mind  —  not  that  he  was  writing  one,  nor  ever 
would  or  could — but  he  believed  each  night  that 
he  should  commence  so  doing  the  next  day.  He 
not  infrequently  stumbled  on  a  few  rhymes, 
which  he  repeated  to  Elizabeth  or  his  guests  as 
"extracts  from  the  work  that  would  be  the  la- 
bor of  his  life,"  with  an  emphasis  on  the  article 
as  if  he  had  been  from  early  youth  busy  with 
grand  mental  tasks  whereof  this  was  to  prove 
the  crowning  glory. 

The  weather  was  gorgeous.  The  beautiful  re- 
gion grew  more  and  more  into  Elizabeth's  heart. 
She  had  admired  it  at  first,  but  she  had  learned 
to  love  it. 

Mr.  Crauford  sometimes  recited  little  poetical 
quotations  about  scenery.  He  offered  these  with 
such  a  conscious  manner,  such  an  air  of  conde- 
scension and  proprietorship,  that  few  people  were 
bold  enough  to  suppose  them  not  original,  even, 


if  an  effort  of  memory  could  have  traced  them  <lay  and  night — alas  for  romance ! 


to  their  source.  But  in  spite  of  these  proofs  or 
genius  and  taste  for  the  beautiful,  Mr.  Crauford 
had  slight  fancy  for  going  in  search  of  it,  espe- 
cially when  the  road  led  up  steep  hills.  In  con- 
sequence, Elizabeth  and  Nathalie  made  a  great 
many  excursions  together,  guarded  by  Gervais 
or  Margot,  sometimes,  to  the  latter's  content- 
ment, by  the  pair  in  company.  And  there  were 
such  quantities  of  lovely  places  to  visit,  it  is  a 
shame  that  the  attempt  to  describe  them  would 
only  sound  like  a  page  torn  out  of  a  guide-book. 
The  old  chateau  of  Blonay  was  within  walking 
distance,  so  were  numerous  picturesque  hamlets 
perched  on  the  hill-sides.  Then  there  were  jaunts 
in  a  stout  char ;  climbs  up  the  rocks  of  Naze, 
which  command  a  wonderful  view  of  the  Savoy- 
ard and  Bernese  Alps  and  a  glimpse  of  Mont 
Blanc  ;  a  journey  to  the  Col  de  Jamin,  a  wild, 
frowning  pass,  with  the  needle-like  cliff  towering 
above  :  every  where  one  turned  new  routes  de- 
lightful to  follow,  new  scenes  more  charming 
than  those  discovered  hitherto. 

There  was  a  little  boat  at  the  villa  landing 
which  Elizabeth  could  row,  and,  though  Nathalie 
was  at  first  given  to  slight  fears,  she  overcame 
them,  and  the  two  were  very  fond  of  drifting 
about  the  lake  on  the  warm  afternoons,  when 
Mr.  Crauford  did  not  see  fit  to  grow  nervous 
and  keep  them  at  home. 

Then,  too,  Madame  was  capricious,  and  not 
unseldom  prohibited  Nathalie's  seeking  her  new 
favorite.  Madame  had  her  dnys  of  liking  Miss 
Crauford  also,  and  would  'even  sometimes  beg 
the  favor  of  a  visit ;  but  she  generally  turned 
sulky  or  fretful  before  Elizabeth  had  been  five 
minutes  in  the  room,  and  almost  forgot  her  thin 
varnish  of  French  politeness  under  the  force  of 
some  secret  irritation.  Of  course,  Miss  Crau- 


ford bore  her  moods  patiently  ;  she  knew  how 
terribly  the  poor  woman  suffered.  She  could 
not  so  easily  pass  over  the  capriciousness  with 
which  Nathalie  was  treated  ;  she  could  see  that 
it  had  a  bad  effect  upon  the  girl,  who  certainly 
possessed  faults  enough  already. 

The  days  flew  by.  The  vintage  came  and 
passed.  This  was  a  disappointment  to  both 
girls.  They  had  looked  forward  to  witnessing 
a  scene  at  once  poetical,  picturesque,  and  bucolic, 
and  had  talked  in  advance  of  the  pretty  sight  it 
would  be  to  watch  the  stalwart  youths  and  sun- 
browned  maidens  gather  the  amber  clusters  of 
grapes,  poising  the  rustic  baskets  on  their  heads, 
singing  quaint  songs  in  their  free,  musical  young 
voices. 

The  reality  of  which  picture  was  that  dirty 
old  men  and  ancient  crones,  hideous  of  aspect, 
collected  the  grapes  in  ugly  wooden  buckets, 
crushed  the  fruit  with  heavy  sticks  to  make  the 
buckets  hold  the  more,  and  after  that  the  masses 
were  put  under  a  huge  black  pressoir  to  be 
squeezed,  and  both  men  and  women  were  drunk 


Between  that  cruel  disillusion  and  her  moth- 
er's increasing  fretfulness,  Nathalie  began  to  lose 
patience. 

"I  wish  Monsieur  would  come  back,"  she 
said  often.  "  He  is  little  and  he  is  ugly,  and 
he  wears  a  wig,  but  at  least  he  is  always  good- 
natured,  and  mamma  is  so  tiresome  with  her 
temper." 

"  Remember  how  long  she  has  been  ill,"  Eliz- 
abeth said  one  day  when  Nathalie  had  come  in 
to  see  her,  indignant  and  annoyed. 

"  My  dear,  I  never  attempt  to  blind  myself 
to  facts,"  returned  Nathalie,  with  a  cynicism 
that  was  painful.  ' '  Illness  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  matter.  Mamma  was  always  the  most 
tyrannical  and  capricious  woman  in  the  world, 
and  her  temper  was  always  fiendish.  I  recol- 
lect that  as  a  child,  though  I  was  not  much 
with  her — I  was  in  the  way." 

"Nathalie !" 

"  I  was  in  the  way,  I  assure  you.  Did  I  not 
just  say  I  never  made  to  myself  illusions  ?  She 
put  me  in  a  convent  for  her  own  convenience — 
she  kept  me  there  for  the  same  reason  till  I  was 
grown  up — she  took  me  out  because  it  suits  her 
that  I  should  marry. " 

"  Do  you  not  suppose  what  seemed  best  for 
you  had  something  to  do  with  her  resolves  ?" 
asked  Elizabeth. 

"I  will  suppose  so  if  you  like.  I  should  have 
been  sent  just  the  same  in  any  case.  Now,  do 
not  make  me  out  worse  than  I  am.  I  bear 
tolerably  well  with  her  caprices,  you  must  ad- 
mit." 

"  Yes,  in  general." 

"  Ah,  well,  one  is  not  perfect — even  mamma, 
though  she  is  trying  to  make  her  salvation." 

Nathalie  was  so  accustomed  to  regard  her 


42 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


mother  as  an  invalid,  and  knew  so  little  of  ill- 
ness, that  she  was  not  anxious  about  her — no 
proof  of  hard-heaitedness  in  her  case.  Indeed, 
it  seemed  an  even  chance  whether  Madame's 
strength  might  not  hold  out  till  she  had  ex- 
hausted the  patience  and  health  of  all  surround- 
ing her. 

"I  do  bear  with  her," pursued  Nathalie,  "be- 
cause she  is  ailing.  If  she  were  well,  we  should 
have  one  battle  royal  that  would  prove  to  her  I 
meant  to  be  mistress,  and  I  should  probably  be 
forced  to  box  her  ears." 

"  Nathalie !"  in  a  tone  of  horror. 

"I  should  infallibly  and  without  doubt  box 
her  ears,"  amended  Nathalie,  as  usual  goaded 
on  to  fresh  extravagances  of  language  by  this 
note  of  disapproval.  "  I  boxed  Susanne's  ears 
the  other  day ;  she  thought  I  was  mad,  and  has 
been  very  docile  ever  since." 

"Nathalie!" — disapprobation  that  was  almost 
disgust  now  mingling  with  the  horror. 

"  What  will  you  ?  I  told  you  long  since  I  was 
a  whole  menagerie,"  returned  Nathalie,  shrugging 


her  shoulders.  She  rose  and  looked  at  he 
in  the  glass — they  were  in  the  salon  of  the 
— and  continued  pensively,  "I  look  so  sweet 
and  amiable,  too — it  is  odd !  After  all,  I  am 
not  ill-tempered;  I  mean  that  I  neither  scold 
nor  fret — all  I  want  is  my  own  way !  I  must 
have  that ;  I  was  born  to  have  it,  I  suppose, 
else  the  instinct  would  not  be  so  strong  in  me. " 

Elizabeth  had  learned  the  uselessness  of  ex- 
postulation or  other  attempt  to  set  right  Natha- 
lie's peculiar  ideas. 

"Have  you  had  a  letter  from  Monsieur  this 
week  ?"  she  asked,  by  way  of  changing  the  con- 


versation. 

"Yes,  this  morning. 


But,  bah !  his  letters 


always  vex  me — half  to  mamma,  directed  to 
her,  read  by  her  first ;  it  is  odious !  Such  a 
marriage  as  mine  has  little  enough  romance  ; 
they  would  be  wise  to  leave  me  at  liberty  to 
weave  a  few  shreds  about  it.  But  no,  they  are 
blind,  blind !" 

She  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  stamped 
her  feet,  inveighed  against  French  customs  and 
the  peculiar  idiocy  displayed  by  her  betrothed 
and  her  mother ;  and  Elizabeth  let  her  alone, 
aware  by  experience  that  she  would  soon  rave 
herself  into  calmness.  Presently  she  sat  down 
again  and  began  to  laugh  :  Elizabeth  looked  so 
perfectly  unmoved  that  she  could  not  avoid  com- 
ing out  of  her  heroics. 

"  I  really  believe  if  you  did  not  act  like  a  wet 
blanket  on  me  they  would  drive  me  into  some- 
thing desperate  by  their  folly,"  she  said. 

"Folly  which  exists  in  your  imagination," 
returned  Elizabeth.  "  You  would  like  to  get 
up  a  grief  for  yourself,  and  you  have  no  materi- 
als. You  have  told  me  twenty  times  you  had 
no  objection  to  marry  Monsieur  La  Tour." 

"Just  so,"  said  Nathalie;  "but  sometimes 


the  prosaic  look  of  the  whole  thing  drives  me 
wild." 

"Bah!  you  always  want  an  excitement  of 
some  sort." 

"So  I  do.  You  know  me  very  well ;  but 
you  like  me  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  I  like  you ;  shall  we  go  out  ?  Papa 
is  busy  in  his  room  with  letters — he  did  not  want 
my  help,  he  said ;  odd,  too,  now  I  come  to  think 
of  it,  for  I  am  usually  his  amanuensis. " 

"I  never  mean  to  be  useful,"  said  Nathalie: 
"it  is  a  mistake !  Monsieur  La  Tour  will  find 
that  all  the  sacrifices  must  come  from  him." 

"  What  a  selfish,  petty  life  you  will  lead !" 

"You  think  it?  Ah,  well,  at  least  I  shall  be 
helping  Monsieur  to  win  the  way  to  Heaven — 
you  know  it  is  sacrifice  does  it,"  laughed  the  in- 
corrigible girl. 

Elizabeth  went  up-stairs  to  see  her  father  be- 
fore going  out,  and  found  him  still  occupied.  He 
looked  flurried  and  worried,  but,  as  he  declared 
there  was  nothing  the  matter,  she  concluded  that 
he  was  only  oppressed  by  a  sudden  afflatus  of  his 

nius.  Sometimes,  when  waiting  to  be  deliv- 
ered of  a  few  verses,  the  agonies  of  labor  were 
extreme.  If  he  had  not  possessed  a  dictionary 
of  rhymes  to  serve  as  a  sort  of  mental  midwife, 
there  is  no  knowing  what  misfortune  might  have 
happened ;  even  with  that  aid,  the  struggles  more 
frequently  ended  in  doleful  abortions  than  any 
completed  effort. 

Down  by  the  fountain  between  the  villa  and 
chalet  the  girls  met  Margot,  of  whom  they  were 
in  search.  They  met  Susanne  too,  and  Susanne 
and  the  Burgundian  were  both  in  a  towering  pas- 
sion. Susanne  had  threatened  to  drown  her  op- 
ponent in  the  basin,  and  the  two  were  displaying 
an  invention  in  the  matter  of  bad  names  which 
only  French  tongues  could  have  shown.  A  sev- 
en-headed monster,  and  each  head  that  of  a  don- 
key, was  tho  mildest  term  of  opprobrium  Susanne 
lavished  upon  her  foe,  and  the  Burgundian  re- 
plied by  cruel  taunts  in  regard  to  her  enemy's 
age.  It  seemed  difficult  for  either  to  tell  what 
the  quarrel  had  arisen  about;  but  Gervais  was 
standing  at  a  discreet  distance,  wearing  an  ex- 
pression of  such  modest  merit  that  the  young 
ladies  felt  certain  his  fascinations  were  at  the 
bottom  of  the  disturbance. 

Fortunately,  both  women  stood  sufficiently  in 
awe  of  Miss  Crauford  for  her  presence  to  bring 
the  dispute  to  a  close  and  postpone  the  proposed 
drowning  of  Margot. 

"I  wish  you  had  stayed  in  the  house,"  whis- 
pered Nathalie ;  "  they  would  not  stop  just  for 
me,  and  I  dare  say  the  noise  might  have  amused 
me.  Proof  of  a  vulgar  taste,  is  it  not  ? — but  true 
all  the  same." 

Miss  Crauford  requested  Margot  to  follow  with- 
out delay,  and  to  have  the  goodness  to  check  her 
sobs,  which  had  burst  forth  with  appalling  vehe- 
mence at  sight  of  her  mistress. 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


43 


"It  was  no  fault  of  mine,"  she  began. 

"I  have  not  said  that  it  was,"replied  Elizabeth. 

"  She  goaded  me ;  she  maddened  me  with  her 
vile  language.  Mademoiselle  must  not  blame 
me,"  cried  Susanne. 

"  I  have  not  told  you  that  I  did,"  returned  Miss 
Crauford.  "I  have  only  to  say  that  I  would 
advise  you  both  to  end  the  quarrel  at  once,  and 
to  be  careful  that  I  hear  of  no  future  one." 

They  could  neither  of  them  have  told  why 
they  stood  in  awe  of  her,  since  she  never  scolded ; 
yet  they  both  did.  Perhaps  it  was  her  very  com- 
posure which  caused  them  to  feel  that  some  aw- 
ful threat  lurked  under  her  cold  reproof.  Su- 
snnne  passed  meekly  into  the  chalet ;  Margot 
dried  her  eyes  in  haste,  and  followed  the  young 
ladies  without  as  much  as  a  gurgle  in  her  throat. 

"I  can  not  think  how  you  manage  it,"  sighed 
Nathalie;  "I  am  so  fond  of  making  people  do 
as  I  say,  yet  I  never  succeed  half  so  well  as  you, 
who  seem  to  care  nothing  about  it." 

They  took  the  hill-road  to  Clarens,  and  walked 
on  past  the  pretty  cemetery  which  overlooks  the 
village  and  lake.  No  more  tranquil  place  of  rest, 
could  be  imagined.  Weeping  willows  drooped 
over  the  grassy  graves,  melancholy  cypresses 
stood  up  like  funeral  urns.  Strangers  from  all 
lands  slept  there  under  the  blue  sky.  Beneath 
them  stretched  the  long,  narrow  valley,  the  lake 
spread  out,  a  sea  of  molten  amber,  in  the  far 
distance,  where  sky  and  water  seemed  to  meet, 
ii  golden-pink  haze  floated  like. a  curtain,  fairly 
dazzling  the  eyes  with  its  splendor.  Vineyards 
dotted  the  hill-sides ;  picturesque  villages  were 
scattered  here  and  there,  some  close  to  the  lake, 
others  clinging  to  the  mountain  ;  beyond  was 
the  mighty  sweep  of  snow -crowned  cliffs  that 
guard  the  road  toward  the  Simplon. 

The  two  girls  went  their  way  at  length,  talk- 
ing more  gravely  for  a  while  than  they  had  be- 
fore done.  But  Nathalie  soon  recovered  her  gay 
spirits.  She  gave  reminiscences  of  her  convent 
life,  possessing  the  enviable  faculty  of  making 
the  events  and  people  she  described  stand  out 
living  and  real ;  and  her  mixture  of  fun  and 
cynicism  was  very  droll.  The  pair  had  few 
tastes  or  ideas  in  common,  still  they  enjoyed 
each  other's  society.  Both  were  enthusiastic  in 
their  way,  eacli  secretly  contemptuous  of  her 
companion's  subjects  of  enthusiasm,  but  eager 
..to  hear  about  them  all  the  same.  Elizabeth 
Crauford  had  not  lived  much  with  girls  of  her 
own  age.  By  nature  and  habit  she  was  reticent, 
yet  she  always  found  herself  talking  to  Nathalie 
with  a  freedom  at  which  she  wondered.  Per- 
haps some  feeling  that  the  creature  needed  a 
missionary  to  point  out  the  beautiful  and  true 
animated  Miss  Crauford  to  a  certain  extent ; 
but,  independent  of  that,  there  was  a  charm 
about  Nathalie  which  she  could  not  resist;  she 
might  disapprove,  still  she  loved  her. 

They  went  on  through  Montreux,  and  turned 


down  the  precipitous  hill  toward  Terretet  and  the 
lake,  to  where  the  Castle  of  Chillon  rose  close  to 
the  water's  edge.  They  were  fond  of  going  there, 
though  the  castle  was  always  a  disappointment, 
in  spite  of  romance  and  Lord  Byron.  The  exte- 
rior looked  more  like  a  great  whitish-gray  farm- 
house than  a  chateau,  and  the  dungeon  Nathalie 
pronounced  too  dry,  and  light,  and  comfortable. 
But,  though  Elizabeth  did  not  care  about  Lord 
Byron,  she  liked  to  dream  of  Bonnivard  and  his 
struggles  for  freedom  ;  while  Nathalie  called  that 
view  prosaic,  and  preferred  Byron's  imaginary 
hero  and  the  poet's  name  cut  by  his  own  hand 
in  one  of  the  columns. 

At  least  the  chateau  boasted  a  drawbridge,  a 
turret,  some  high-walled  courts ;  and  there  was 
a  dismal  den  which  had  been  the  chamber  of  an 
ancient  Duke  of  Savoy,  and  next  it  a  room,  with 
a  single  window,  giving  a  lovely  view  over  the 
lake,  where  his  duchess,  perhaps,  used  to  sit  cent- 
uries ago  and  look  across  the  waters,  and  think 
what  a  doleful  thing  was  a  ducal  existence,  while 
her  lord  snored  in  the  outer  apartment  after  the 
labors  of  the  chase. 

"  "  A  duchess  who  only  had  one  window  to  her 
bedroom  I"  cried  Nathalie.  "Marrying  Mon- 
sieur La  Tour  is  not  so  bad  as  that." 

"  You  so  often  find  states  of  life  which  might 
be  worse,  that  I  wonder  you  complain  so  much," 
said  Elizabeth.  "Admit  once  for  all  that — sup- 
posing such  a  thing  possible — and  you  would  be 
very  sorry  if  your  engagement  were  broken  off." 

"So  I  should,"  said  Nathalie.  "But,  then, 
I  am  not  satisfied.  Ah !  if  one  could  only  be  a 
duchess  now !" 

"  With  a  bedroom  like  this  ?" 

"Nonsense !" 

"My  dear,  we  are  neither  of  us  very  old  nor 
very  wise,  but  we  do  know,  or  we  ought,  that 
the  woman  who  has  a  heart  offered  her  like  that 
of  Monsieur  La  Tour's  has  won  a  prize." 

"  No  doubt ;  but  what  I  want  is  twenty  prizes, 
not  one." 

"Well,"  said  Elizabeth,  "I  only  hope  Mon- 
sieur will  make  you  live  in  some  quiet  place 
where  you  can  not  get  into  mischief." 

"  I  would  get  into  mischief  if  he  shut  me 
up  in  a  box!"  cried  Nathalie.  "At  least  one 
conld  put  an  advertisement  in  the  newspapers — 
'  Wanted,  by  a  handsome  young  woman,  whom 
an  old  husband  guards  like  an  ogre,  a  speedy 
and  amusing  chance  to  disgrace  herself.'  Some- 
thing of  that  sort  would  bring  answers." 

They  left  the  chateau,  mounted  the  hill  again, 
and  reached  the  gray  stone  church  —  the  last 
building  on  the  mountain  road.  It  hangs  sus- 
pended midway  along  a  mighty  cliff — a  frowning 
mass  of  rocks  towers  above — just  space  for  the 
highway,  the  church,  and  a  terrace ;  then  the 
hill  sweeps  down  almost  in  a  precipice  toward 
the  lake.  A  man-elous  spot  that  terrace  for 
watching  sunsets  and  dreaming  dreams ! 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


Thev  seated  themselves  on  one  of  the  rustic 
benches  arranged  under  the  low,  sturdy  trees ; 
and  even  Nathalie  was  silent  for  a  time.  The 
bell  up  in  the  gray  tower  was  ringing  slowly ; 
the  rooks  circled  about,  and  answered  its  chime 
with  their  hoarse  ejaculations.  A  bird,  perched 
on  a  window-sill  of  the  church,  sang  as  if  he 
would  sing  his  very  soul  out;  the  breeze  stole 
softly  past ;  the  magical  view  brightened,  and 
grew  glorious  each  instant  as  the  colors  of  the 
approaching  sunset  began  to  gain  strength  and 
brightness.  The  mountain  range  that  shut  in 
the  lake  miles  and  miles  below  was  a  long  line 
of  rose-colored  flame ;  the  nearer  cliffs  had  their 
summits  bathed  in  gorgeous  tints,  while  awful 
shadows  began  to  wrap  their  sides,  and  spread 
far  out  over  the  waters,  till  in  the  centre  of  the 
lake  the  sunset  hues  struck  broad  and  full,  daz- 
zling the  eye  with  their  radiance. 

"I  like  to  come  here,"  said  that  provoking 
Nathalie,  suddenly, "  because  there  is  occasionally 
a  man  to  look  at  me." 

There  were  plenty  of  people  scattered  among 
the  different  villages,  but  few  whom  Nathalie 
called  interesting.  There  were  flocks  of  heavy 
Germans  who  came  for  the  cure,  and  were  to  be 
met  on  all  the  roads  with  cabas  of  grapes,  busy 
devouring  their  ten  pounds  per  diem.  There 
were  quiet  English  families  who  could  not  afford 
to  go  any  where  else,  and  seemed  occupied  in 
wearing  out  their  old  clothes ;  one  woman  in 
particular  appeared  in  a  succession  of  faded  ball- 
dresses,  whose  colors  made  Nathalie  sea- sick; 
quantities  of  bustling  Americans,  who  came  be- 
cause they  must  rush  into  every  nook  and  cor- 
ner ;  but  genuine  young  men — handsome,  stylish 
fellows — were  so  scarce  that  Nathalie  often  de- 
clared she  feared  the  race  must  be  nearly  extinct. 
She  followed  up  her  first  remark  by  a  speech  of 
this  nature. 

"  Luckily,  the  race  is  nothing  to  you  any  long- 
er," said  Elizabeth,  inclined  to  be  severe  at  this 
disturbing  of  her  reverie. 

"Is  it  not?"  demanded  Nathalie.  "  Let  me 
get  within  reach  of  a  dozen  or  two,  and  you  shall 
see,  and  Monsieur  La  Tour  also." 

"You  might  prove  less  irresistible  to  them 
than  you  fancy,"  returned  Elizabeth;  "your 
vanity  is  excessive." 

Nathalie  laughed,  not  in  the  least  nettled. 

"  You  really  do  me  good,  in  spite  of  myself," 
she  said.  "  I  believe  I  should  turn  out  a  very 
decent  woman  if  I  could  always  have  you  near 
me." 

Presently  along  came  a  troop  of  Germans,  all 
with  noses  like  sausages,  all  eating  grapes,  and 
making  a  terrific  noise  about  it.  Nathalie  vowed 
that  she  could  not  endure  their  society. 

"I  should  hate  a  view  into  heaven  in  such 
company,"  she  said  with  her  usual  vehemence. 
4 '  We  might  go  on  to  the  village,  and  back  to  the 
Chauderon ;  we  have  never  been  there  but  once. 


In  trifles  it  was  easier  to  yield  to  Nathalie  for 
the  sake  of  peace,  so  Miss  Crauford  complied 
with  her  whim. 

Back  of  Montreux  is  a  great  culdron-shaped 
gap  in  the  mountains,  torn  out  ages  ago  by  some 
mighty  convulsion  of  Nature.  In  the  centre  a 
white  cascade  leaps  and  foams  down  the  rocks 
— a  mad  torrent  when  swollen  by  spring  rains 
and  melting  snows,  but  diminished  in  volume, 
lovely  rather  than  grand,  at  that  time  of  year. 

The  path  by  which  one  descended  the  cliff 
was  precipitous  enough.  Margot  begged  pite- 
ously  to  be  left  at  the  top. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  whimpered ;  "  I  dreamed 
twice  last  week  of  breaking  my  neck  by  a  fall  in 
just  such  a  place." 

"Did  it  hurt?"  asked  Nathalie. 

"Ah!  do  not  laugh,  Mademoiselle.  I  can 
not  go — I  can  not." 

' '  Wait  for  us  here, "  returned  Elizabeth.  ' '  No 
one  wishes  you  to  do  what  frightens  you." 

As  soon  as  she  found  herself  safe  from  the  ex- 
pedition, of  course  the  Burgundian  proceeded  to 
find  a  lie  wherewith  to  cover  up  her  cowardice. 

"It  is  not  that  I  have  fear,  Mesdemoiselles," 
she  said  with  dignity,  "but  I  possess  an  aged 
mother  dependent  upon  my  exertions.  I  have 
no  right  to  risk  a  valuable  life." 

"  Only  a  mother  ?"  asked  Nathalie. 

"Four  little  brothers  and  sisters,  one  a  lame 
boy,  and  a  brother-in-law  who  is  paralytic,"  said 
the  Burgundian  glibly,  putting  her  handkerchief 
to  her  eyes. 

"The  lame  boy  and  the  paralytic  have  ap- 
peared since  the  last  time  she  told  the  story," 
whispered  Nathalie  to  her  friend.  "  I  always 
thought  our  Breton  the  hugest  story-teller  in  the 
world  till  I  saw  your  Burgundian." 

They  left  her  seated  on  a-  flat  rock,  tranquilly 
munching  a  cake,  and  forgetful  already  of  her 
suffering  family  in  the  pages  of  a  cheap  feuillc- 
ton,  fuller  of  wonderful  incidents  than  any  imag- 
ination save  that  of  a  Frenchman  could  have 
conceived. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  immense  ravine  a  rustic 
bridge  spanned  the  stream,  just  below  the  cas- 
cade. On  the  other  side  a  path  as  arduous  and 
difficult  as  that  by  which  the  two  girls  had  de- 
scended led  up  among  higher  cliffs,  where  dark 
pine  trees  cast  gloomy  shadows  about. 

The  cascade  talked  so  loudly  that  Nathalie's 
voice  was  drowned,  and  she  relinquished  in  de- 
spair any  effort  to  converse,  feeling  that  she  rather 
hated  the  noisy  thing,  as  she  had  just  been  ready 
to  propound  some  wonderful  theory  which  had 
struck  her,  and  which  she  believed  startlingly 
original. 

Elizabeth  stood  on  the  bridge  and  enjoyed  the 
lovely  scene  to  her  full  content  for  a  time.  Sud- 
denly it  occurred  to  her  strange  that  Nathalie 
had  left  her  so  long  in  peace.  She  looked 
about ;  her  companion  had  disappeared.  Eliza- 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


45 


beth  crossed  the  bridge  and  gained  the  opposite 
bank,  caught  the  flutter  of  a  dress,  and  heard 
Nathalie's  voice,  half  in  merriment,  half  in  ter- 
ror. That  creature  could  no  more  keep  out  of 
mischief  than  could  a  kitten.  She  had  gone 
down  to  dip  her  hands  in  the  water,  had  slipped 
on  the  spray-wet  turf,  and  entangled  her  skirts 
about  the  branch  of  a  fallen  tree  so  that  she 
could  not  extricate  herself. 

Elizabeth  hastened  to  her  rescue.  How  it 
came  about  neither  could  ever  tell;  but  after 
getting  Nathalie  free,  and  helping  her  part  way 
up  the  bank,  Elizabeth  slipped  and  fell,  knocking 
her  head  with  such  force  that  she  lay  senseless. 
Nathalie  shrieked,  and  became  utterly  helpless 
and  insane  at  once.  Fortunately  a  gentleman, 
who  had  been  higher  up  among  the  hills,  heard 
and  saw  what  had  happened  as  he  came  down 
toward  the  bridge. 

It  was  the  work  of  only  a  few  minutes  for  him 
to  raise  the  prostrate  girl,  cany  her  to  the 
bridge,  and  assure  the  frightened  Nathalie  that 
her  friend  was  not  hurt.  In  spite  of  Nathalie's 
alarm,  she  had  eyes  to  see  that  he  was  a  tall, 
fine- looking  man,  and  young — aoi  artist,  too, 
judging  from  the  sketch -box  slung  over  his 
shoulder.  But  the  stranger  did  not  notice  her — 
he  was  studying  the  face  of  the  girl  he  held  in 
his  arms.  Launce  Cromlin  was  a  painter,  and 
this  face  like  the  ideal  he  had  been  searching  for 
for  years.  But  he  had  no  leisure  for  such 
thoughts — every  moment  was  precious.  He  had 
only  reached  Montreux  a  few  hours  before ;  the 
long-delayed  letters,  informing  him  of  old  Mr. 
Vaughan's  illness  and  desire  for  his  immediate 
return,  were  awaiting  his  arrival.  There  would 
be  no  train  until  toward  evening.  He  had  gone 
up  the  mountain  with  his  sketch-box  to  pass  the 
time,  had  lingered  longer  than  he  ought,  and 
was  hurrying  toward  the  village,  afraid  of  miss- 
ing the  train,  when  stopped  by  Nathalie's  frantic 
cries. 

The  fainting  girl  was  not  hurt,  he  was  sure  of 
that.  He  had  no  time  to  waste  in  absurd,  ro- 
mantic fancies. 

"  She  is  coming  to  herself,"  he  said.  "  Made- 
moiselle, you  will  think  me  a  brute ;  I  can  not 
stop — I  must  catch  the  train ;  I  am  going  to  a 
dying  relative.  Stay  here,  and  I  will  send  you 
help ;  no,  better,  I'll  carry  your  friend  up  the 
hill." 

It  was  not  an  easy  task  to  carry  a  well-grown 
young  woman  up  that  ascent,  but  Cromlin  did  it. 
Elizabeth  was  conscious  now,  though  she  dared 
not  stir,  for  a  very  prosaic  reason — she  had  turned 
horribly  sick.  She  could  not  open  her  eyes ;  she 
knew  she  was  placed  on  a  bench  ;  heard  Natha- 
lie's voice  and  that  of  the  stranger,  but  could 
only  cover  her  face,  and  whisper  to  Nathalie  to 
send  the  man  away. 

"She  is  better,"  Nathalie  said.  "Thanks,  a 
thousand  times.  Ah!  here  is  Margot,  Made- 


moiselle Crauford's  maid.  We  shall  do  very 
well  now.  Don't  wait,  please ;  you  need  not 
send  any  body.  If  you  see  a  carriage,  you 
might  order  it  to  wait  for  us  at  the  turn.  We 
must  drive  back  to  the  Maladeyre.  Thanks, 
again.  Good-bye." 

Cromlin  would  have  given  a  great  deal  for  one 
more  look  at  that  pale,  beautiful  countenance, 
but  it  was  carefully  hidden.  He  comprehended 
that  for  some  reason  the  ladies  were  anxious  he 
should  take  himself  off.  Indeed,  he  had  not  a 
moment  to  lose ;  his  best  exertions  would  barely 
bring  him  to  the  station — away  down  near  the 
lake — in  time.  A  few  more  hurried  words, -and 
off  he  dashed. 

That  night  as  Nathalie  sat  in  her  own  room, 
thinking  over  the  incident,  she  said  many  times 
to  herself — 

"That  is  not  the  man;  there  will  no  harm 
come  to  her  through  me  where  he  is  concerned. 
Yet  he  is  to  be  something  to  her;  such  things 
do  not  happen  for  nothing. " 

The  mishap  was  to  be  kept  a  profound  secret 
from  Mr.  Crauford,  lest  he  should  prohibit  any 
future  excursions.  The  girls  hired  a  carriage 
and  drove  home,  and  Elizabeth  was  quit  of  her 
accident  with  only  a  headache. 

Launce  Cromlin  had  found  time  to  ask  ques- 
tions at  the  station  in  regard  to  the  inhabitants 
of  La  Maladeyre. 

He  knew  that  Robert  Crauford  was  an  old 
friend  of  his  uncle's.  Mr.  Vaughan  had  former- 
ly talked  much  to  Launce  of  Mrs.  Crauford,  of 
this  very  young  lady  he  had  just  aided — a  child 
in  those  days,  never  seen  by  Mr.  Vaughan  since 
her  babyhood. 

And  Launce,  borne  swiftly  away  through  the 
dusk  of  evening,  was  thinking  it  odd  that  he 
should  have  been  thrown  momentarily  into  the 
presence  of  this  girl,  for  he  had  known  from  his 
own  mother  of  Mr.  Vaughan's  youthful  love  and 
disappointment. 

That  face  haunted  him  like  the  realization  of 
a  long-cherished  dream ;  and  often  during  his 
rapid  journey,  and  the  sea -voyage  which  suc- 
ceeded, he  marveled  when  and  where  he  should 
meet  it  again. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

FACE   TO   FACE. 

MR.  CKACFORD  had  not  passed  an  agreeable 
night.  Having  taken  very  little  exercise  during 
the  day  on  account  of  a  fancied  bise,  which  he 
was  certain  would  give  him  neuralgia,  he  natur- 
ally did  not  sleep  soundly,  and  was  beset  by  bad 
dreams.  He  had  no  idea  that  he  could  blame 
himself  for  the  restlessness :  he  regarded  it  as 
entirely  the  result  of  his  delicate  health  and 
nervous  organization. 


46 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


Daylight  came,  and  he  was  disturbed  by  the 
groans  and  expostulations  of  an  unfortunate 
swine  that  the  farmer  and  his  man  were  drag- 
ging away  to  sacrifice.  The  Mosaic  outcast  did 
not  go  forth  to  martyrdom  with  any  attempt  at 
calmness  or  dignity.  His  yells  were  actually 
heart-rending.  This  tumult  startled  Mr.  Crau- 
ford  from  the  only  peaceful  doze  he  had  encoun- 
tered since  going  to  bed.  When  the  voice  of 
the  victim  died  in  the  distance,  he  fell  asleep 
again,  and  dreamed  of  seeing  a  pig  with  a  night- 
cap on,  who  addressed  him  in  the  words  of  the 
elder  Hamlet,  "  I  am  thy  father's  ghost !"  Mr. 
Crauford  awoke  in  disgust.  Nothing  so  thor- 
oughly vexed  him  as  to  have  unromantic  dreams. 
It  hurt  his  vanity  to  think  that  even  in  slumber 
his  poetic  nature  could  be  visited  by  common- 
place fancies. 

So  he  rose  in  a  mood  to  suffer,  and  to  make 
life  uncomfortable  to  those  about,  as  is  the  priv- 
ilege of  poets.  Elizabeth  paid  him  a  visit,  and 
was  full  of  sympathy  for  his  complaints,  to 
which  she  would  have  been  obliged  to  listen  all 
day,  instead  of  going  out  on  that  ramble  with 
Nathalie,  had  not  a  fortunate  occurrence  — 
whereof  she  was  in  ignorance — made  her  father 
anxious  to  be  left  alone. 

The  postman  brought  a  letter  for  Mr.  Crau- 
ford— an  American  letter.  On  opening  the 
envelope,  he  found  the  closely  •written  sheet 
marked  private. 

The  mystery  was  quite  delightful  to  him  ;  he 
fairly  forgot  the  neuralgic  pain  at  the  back  of 
his  left  ear,  and  the  second  line  he  had  been 
vainly  seeking  as  a  continuation  to  what  he  be- 
lieved a  poem. 

The  letter,  which  he  read  with  great  interest 
— for  any  tiling  approaching  romance  was  agree- 
able to  Mr.  Crauford,  as  it  is  to  most  people, 
however  stoutly  they  may  deny  the  charge — 
came  from  Darrell  Vaughan.  It  detailed  the 
facts  of  his  uncle's  illness  and  death,  the  fortune 
which  had  devolved  upon  himself,  and  the  odd, 
unbusiness-like  couicil  appended  to  the  will :  I 
should  sny,  the  story  of  the  codicil  with  a  differ- 
ence. Darrell  Vanghan  made  no  mention  of 
Lnunce  Cromlin.  The  dead  man  had  decreed 
that  his  nephew  should  inherit  the  additional 
two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  on  con- 
dition that  he  succeeded  in  obtaining  Elizabeth 
Crauford's  hand. 

"You  will  see,"  wrote  Darrell,  "from  the 
foregoing,  why  I  have  asked  you  to  keep  this 
letter  a  secret  for  the  present.  If  your  daughter 
knew  of  this  strange  codicil,  it  might  either 
prejudice  her  against  me  or  cause  a  certain  em- 
barrassment between  us.  You  will  perhaps 
smile  at  my  romantic  folly  when  I  tell  you  that 
my  heart  has  gone  out  toward  a  woman  I  have 
never  seen.  Yet  it  is  true,  liefore  my  uncle's 
death  Miad  been  shown  by  a  mutual  friend  your 
daughter's  portrait  and  several  letters  from  her. 


I  had  contemplated  a  journey  to  Europe  with 
but  one  object — that  of  seeing  her. 

"Among  my  uncle's  papers  I  have  found  a 
letter  for  you,  and  one  also  for  your  daughter. 
I  do  not  inclose  these,  because  I  shall  soon  hope 
to  hand  them  to  you  personally  ;  and  I  can  not 
bear  to  risk  their  possible  loss  by  post.  Every 
line  penned  by  that  dear  hand  seems  sacred  to 
me. 

"  There  are  other  trifling  details  which  his 
letter  will  explain,  and  which  can  wait  until  I 
place  it  in  your  keeping.  I  have  stated  the  one 
fact  of  importance,  that  he  desires  his  nephew 
to  have  the  great  happiness,  if  possible,  of  w  in- 
ning your  daughter. 

"Although  we  have  never  met,  I  believe  you 
may  know  something  in  regard  to  me  and  my 
brief  past,  such  as  it  is.  I  have  tried  not  to 
waste  my  youth,  have  endeavored  to  make  such 
talents  as  I  possess  useful  to  my  kind.  That 
you  could  for  an  instant  suppose  me  unduly  in- 
fluenced by  this  money  part  of  the  question,  I 
feel,  from  what  I  know  of  your  character,  to  be 
impossible.  I  am  a  richer  man  now  than  is 
necessary  for  the  gratification  of  such  quiet 
tastes  as  mine.  That  the  romance  and  uncom- 
monness  of  the  codicil  appeal  to  me,  I  shall  not 
deny,  nor  do  I  believe  you  will  smile  at  the  folly 
which  leads  me  to  fancy  my  previously  seeing 
the  portrait  and  those  letters  an  omen  that  my 
uncle's  wish  was  to  be  my  fate. " 

There  was  a  good  deal  more,  written  in  a 
manner  which  appealed  powerfully  to  Mr.  Crau- 
ford, as  the  writer  of  the  epistle  had  been  cer- 
tain it  would  do.  Mr.  Crauford  was  much  ex- 
cited by  this  news,  and  in  a  state  of  delightful 
misery.  I  can  think  of  nothing  except  this 
paradox  which  will  exactly  express  what  his 
feelings  were.  It  was  difficult  for  him  to  avoid 
calling  his  daughter  at  once  and  telling  her  the 
whole  story ;  yet  he  enjoyed  so  thoroughly  the 
importance  of  his  secret  that  he  would  not  have 
done  this  for  the  world.  There  mingled,  too, 
other  emotions,  which  touched  upon  old  jealous- 
ies and  pains.  Mr.  Vaughan  had  loved  the 
woman  who  became  Robert  Crauford's  wife. 
Mr.  Crauford  had  always  been  haunted  by  the 
idea  that  pique  influenced  Laura  Marlow  in  her 
acceptance  of  his  hand.  Still  she  proved  a 
faithful  wife.  The  one  storm  which  arose  and 
threatened  their  peace  grew  out  of  his  faults. 
That  was  a  period  upon  which  Mr.  Crauford  did 
not  like  to  look  back.  His  conscience  had 
grown  tender  since  he  became  a  victim  to 
dyspepsia,  and  there  were  certain  episodes,  be- 
fore and  after  his  marriage,  whereon  he  never 
dwelt  if  he  could  avoid  it.  He  was  never  so 
severe  upon  the  frailties  of  others  as  when  some- 
thing chanced  to  rouse  those  troublesome  recol- 
lections. Perhaps  he  thought  repentance  and 
remorse  left  him  at  liberty  to  judge  his  neigh- 
bors with  unsparing  rigor.  1'erhnps  in  some 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


way  it  was  a  relief  to  inveigh  against  folly  or 
•vice — a  proof  to  his  own  mind  that  he  abhorred 
it.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  Mr.  Crauford 
had  ever  been  a  very  bad  man,  that  is,  led  a 
reckless,  disreputable  life.  In  the  height  and 
heyday  of  his  youth  he  had  not  been  guilty  of 
any  beyond  what  society  terms  venial  sins,  and 
readily  pardons  in  youths  possessing  money  and 
position.  In  fact,  his  record  was  quite  as  clean 
as  that  of  nine  men  out  of  ten — yours,  my  vir- 
tuous clergyman !  yours,  my  decorous  judge!  It 
spoke  in  his  favor  that  he  could  still  feel  re- 
morse when  old  memories  came  up.  I  wish  he 
had  not  been  so  severe  on  other  people  ;  but  I 
notice  that  peculiarity  in  most  persons  whose 
consciences  are  somewhat  uneasy  over  their  own 
past. 

Mr.  Crauford  was  thinking,  too,  of  his  wife 
this  morning,  and  that  outbreak  on  her  part,  so 
different  from  her  ordinary  cold,  quiet  manner 
— the  one  cause  for  an  outbreak  he  had  given. 
He  was  thinking,  also,  how  he  used  to  be 
haunted  by  a  fear  that  she  had  been  fonder  of 
Edgar  Vaughan  than  of  him.  Their  married 
lives  had  not  brought  them  into  contact  with 
the  man,  but  the  idea  was  ever  a  sore  place  in 
Mr.  Crauford's  mind.  He  had  fretted  and 
scolded  a  good  deal  over  trifles  all  his  days ; 
and  whenever  he  worried  his  wife  by  so  doing, 
and  she  grew  silent  and  proud,  he  used  to  fancy 
she  was  contrasting  him  in  her  thoughts  with 
the  man  whose  love  she  had  rejected.  This 
fear  did  not  induce  him  to  cure  his  faults.  He 
was  weak,  so  he  only  pitied  himself,  and  felt  it 
hard  indeed  that  any  foolish  fancy,  any  girlish 
predilection,  should  stand  between  him  and  the 
woman  he  loved.  After  a  while  the  sight  of  the 
letter  on  his  table  brought  him  out  of  his  un- 
comfortable reverie.  He  wrote  to  Darrell  a 
pleasant,  friendly  answer — he  was  rather  good 
at  epistolary  efforts.  He  should  be  happy  to 
see  Mr.  Vaughan  and  make  his  acquaintance. 
In  the  mean  time  he  agreed  with  Darrell  it  was 
better  no  communication  should  prepare  Eliza- 
beth for  the  purpose  contained  in  his  coming. 
Should  Mr.  Vaughan's  business  detain  him  in 
London  as  long  as  he  expected,  he  would  over- 
take them  in  Pisa.  If  he  could  leave  sooner,  he 
would  find  them  in  Clarens,  where  they  might 
still  remain  for  several  weeks.  Darrell's  com- 
munication came  from  America  ;  but  he  was  to 
sail  soon,  and  had  given  an  address  in  London, 
to  which  he  begged  Mr.  Crauford  to  write,  so 
that  he  might  have  the  reply  on  his  arrival. 

The  answer  finished,  the  hypochondriac  de- 
cided to  go  out,  feeling  quite  upset  by  the  un- 
usual excitement  of  the  morning.  It  occurred 
to  him  that,  perhaps,  the  young  ladies  had  not 
yet  departed  on  their  ramble ;  he  would  propose 
joining  them  in  a  drive  instead.  Before  this 
thought  struck  him,  he  had  sent  Gervais  to  post 
his  letter.  Of  course,  now  he  forgot  that,  and 


summoned  Gervais  with  his  customary  impa- 
tience— a  stranger  would  have  supposed  him  in 
danger  of  a  fit,  or  the  house  on  fire,  at  least. 
But  Madame  Bocher,  who  replied  to  the  bell  and 
his  frantic  voice,  was  too  thoroughly  Swiss  to  be 
hurried  or  flurried.  She  reminded  him  that  Ger- 
vais was  absent.  He  proceeded  to  fret  a  little, 
in  a  feeble  way.  He  might  fret,  for  any  thing 
Madame  cared.  Did  she  know  if  Miss  Crauford 
and  the  other  young  lady  had  gone  yet  ?  Ma- 
dame knew  nothing  about  the  matter,  but  she 
wanted  to  get  back  to  her  kitchen  ;  and,  as  Mr. 
Crauford  said  he  thought  of  driving  out  if  they 
had  not  departed,  she  promptly  answered  that 
she  believed  they  were  still  in  the  chalet,  in  the 
little  salon  where  Mademoiselle  and  Elizabeth 
often  sat. 

Mr.  Crauford  tied  up  his  neck — he  could  not 
move  from  one  room  to  another  without  this 
precaution,  bronchitis  being  one  of  his  pet  bug- 
bears, though  he  never  had  a  sore  throat  in  his 
life — and  proceeded  in  search  of  the  pair.  The 
entrance  to  this  salon  was  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  chalet  from  Madame's  apartments,  sepa- 
rated from  them,  as  I  have  said,  by  a  long  gal- 
lery. Mr.  Crauford  had  been  in  here  on  several 
occasions  with  Elizabeth.  He  did  not  waste  time 
knocking  at  the  outer  door  of  the  house,  for  a 
vestibule  and  a  dark  passage  stretched  between 
it  and  Nathalie's  salon,  and  the  girls  could  not 
have  heard  him  if  he  had  pounded  till  doomsday. 
There  was  a  bell,  to  be  sure,  but  to  ring  that  was 
useless  too.  It  rang  down  in  the  wine-cellar — 
what  for,  nobody  save  the  Swiss  architect  or  a 
madman  could  have  imagined  ;  but  there  it  was. 
Susanne  had  decided  it  must  be  to  frighten  the 
rats ;  and  when  they  made  too  much  noise  at 
their  revels  under  the  floor,  she  used  to  rush  out 
and  pull  the  bell  vigorously.  Then  one  could 
hear  the  rats  scamper  in  all  directions,  like  ladies 
caught  unprepared  to  receive  visitors,  and  warned 
by  the  tinkle  to  make  their  escape. 

Mr.  Crauford  moved  forward,  stumbled  through 
the  dark  passage,  and  reached  the  salon.  He 
rapped,  and  fancied  that  he  heard  somebody  bid 
him  enter.  He  pushed  open  the  door,  and  as  he 
did  so  a  voice  said — 

"Why  did  you  knock  there,  Susanne?  You 
startled  me." 

Mr.  Crauford  stopped  short  in  considerable 
embarrassment.  The  window  looking  toward 
the  villa  had  its  shutters  closed,  the  other  win- 
dow looked  onto  the  gallery,  so  that  the  room 
was  very  shadowy  indeed.  Mr.  Crauford  de- 
scried a  figure  extended  on  a  sofa ;  neither  his 
daughter  nor  Nathalie  was  visible.  He  was  not 
quick  in  thought  in  general,  but  he  perceived 
that  he  must  have  intruded  on  Madame  L'Es- 
trange.  He  had  not  dreamed  of  disturbing  her. 
Nathalie  had  often  remarked  in  his  presence  that 
her  mother  detested  this  room,  and  never  set  foot 
in  it.  No  man's  brain  was  less  fertile  in  expedi- 


48 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


ents  than  Mr.  Crauford's.  Whether  to  stay  and 
apologize  or  slip  silently  out  he  could  not  decide. 
But  he  had  little  space  for  meditation  ;  the  voice 
spoke  again — 

"  What  are  you  doing,  Susanne  ?  Help  me 
up — I  shall  not  stay  here — I  hate  this  room — 
why  did  I  come?" 

The  demon  of  change,  or  some  other  imp 
equally  ill-natured,  had  prompted  Madame's 
visit  this  day  of  all  the  days  in  the  year.  She 
was  especially  restless  and  suffering,  had  fasted 
and  repeated  choice  bits  from  St.  Joseph's  Of- 
ferings until  she  was  utterly  miserable.  Susanne 
persuaded  her  to  try  the  fresh  air  of  the  gal- 
lery for  a  while ;  and  at  last  she  wandered  into 
Nathalie's  salon,  and  lay  down  there  for  the  first 
time  during  all  these  weeks  she  had  lived  in  the 
chalet. 

\  Mr.  Crauford  was  exceedingly  confused  and 
annoyed  at  his  own  blunder.  There  he  stood, 
helplessly  holding  the  door-knob  in  his  hand. 
Madame  L'Estrange  turned  her  head,  and  per- 
ceived him.  She  started  up  in  astonishment 
and  nervous  terror.  The  sofa  was  close  to  the 
window ;  the  dim  light  fell  full  upon  her  face ; 
MX.  Crauford  saw  it  distinctly,  recognized  it  too 
in  spite  of  the  alteration  and  ravages  years  and 
illness  had  worked  on  its  beauty. 

He  remained  speechless,  staring  at  her,  and 
Madame  stared  at  him,  with  her  presence  of 
mind  as  utterly  astray  as  his  own.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  loose  gown  of  some  sombre  material 
made  with  a  capuchin,  which  she  had  drawn 
partially  over  her  head ;  her  hair  uncurled,  her 
cheeks  without  paint,  her  wasted  countenance 
more  ghastly  than  ever  from  excitement. 

'•Nina  —  Madame  Tracy!"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Orauford  at  last,  looking  like  a  man  who  has 
seen  a  ghost. 

"  Yes ;  Nina,"  she  answered,  shivering.  "Do 
not  speak  that  other  name." 

Then  Mr.  Crauford's  face  darkened  with  sud- 
den anger,  and  his  voice  changed  to  a  querulous 
accent  as  he  tried — 

"What  are  you  doing  here  ?" 
Madame  sat  erect;  the  fire  flashed  into  her 
great  eyes ;  the  old  spirit  roused  itself,  and  gave 
her  a  momentary  strength. 

"  I  suppose  I  may  sit  in  my  own  house,  Rob- 
ert Crauford,"  retorted  she.  "I  think  it  is  for 
me  to  ask  what  yon  are  doing  here.  I  did  not 
send  for  you,  I  believe." 

"Could  I  dream  of  meeting  you?  Could  I 
suppose  they  kept  you  here?  No  one  told  me 
you  lived  with  these  people  —  how  dared  they 
keep  it  a  secret?"  pursued  he,  wrathfully  and  in 
stammering  haste. 

"  Where  else  should  I  live?"  demanded  she. 
"  What  arc  they  to  you? — what — " 
"He  was  always  dull,  this  Robert  Crauford," 
interrupted  she, with  a  scornful  laugh.    "Can  you 
not  understand?—!  am  Madame  L'Estrange." 


"It  is  not  your  name!  What  do  yon  mean 
by  going  about  under  an  assumed  name  ?"  he  ex- 
claimed. 

"It  is  my  name,  and  has  been  for  years,"  re- 
plied Madame,  growing  suddenly  composed  be- 
fore his  agitation.  "If  you  wish  to  know  how  I 
came  by  it,  I  can  tell  you.  Long  ago  a  relative 
left  me  some  money,  and  I  took  his  name ;  I  had 
a  right.  Left  me  money  ;  do  you  hear,  Robert 
Crauford  ?  You  never  knew  nor  cared  whether 
I  had  starved  to  death  or  not. " 

"And  you  have  been  living  here — you  have 
dared  to  receive  my  daughter,  to  let  her  know 
your  girl — to — " 

He  was  so  angry  that  he  could  not  continue. 
He  grasped  the  door  for  support,  and  his  words 
died  in  a  gasp. 

"Not  too  fast,"  cried  Madame,  in  the  same 
sullen,  defiant  way.  "Your  daughter  sought 
me,  forced  herself  on  me,  as  you  have  done, 
Robert  Crauford.  As  for  my  girl,  she  is  an 
angel ;  say  one  word  against  her  if  you  dare !" 

She  looked  such  a  fury  that  he  was  reminded 
of  days  and  scenes  which  lay  half  a  life  back. 
He  had  been  afraid  of  her  temper  then ;  he  was 
frightened  now  in  spite  of  his  anger. 

"Could  I  dream  of  its  being  you?"  said  he. 
"To  think  of  my  daughter  having  set  foot  in 
vour  house!" 

"I  should  not  hurt  her;  I  am  trying  to  be 
good ;  I  have  tried  so  long  and  so  hard, "  whined 
Madame.  Then  her  voice  changed  from  its  lach- 
rymose tone  to  one  of  bitter  irony.  "  Oh,  these 
men !  They  may  be  as  wicked  as  they  please, 
and  set  up  for  saints  when  they  will;  but  we, 
poor  women,  that  they  fool  and  ruin — we  must 
not  venture  to  lift  our  heads  from  the  mud  where 
they  have  flung  us.  Bah !  you  are  all  alike.  I 
never  knew  a  man  who  was  not  a  coward — Gerald 
Tracy  was ;  but  you — you  are  the  greatest  coward 
I  ever  met." 

A  sharp  spasm  of  pain  seized  her ;  she  pressed 
her  hand  to  her  side ;  a  hollow  cough  choked 
her  passionate  speech ;  her  strength  forsook  her, 
and  she  leaned  back  panting  for  breath.  Mr. 
Crauford  was  a  bad-tempered,  unforgiving  man, 
Imt  not  inhuman.  He  saw  how  ill  she  was — 
dying  perhaps  ;  his  anger  yielded  a  little.  This 
Nina  de  Favolles  had  done  him  a  great  deal  of 
harm.  When  he  was  in  Paris,  a  very  young 
man,  she  had  just  reached  the  acme  of  her  in- 
famous career.  She  would  have  ruined  him  had 
he  not  discovered  in  time  that  her  love  was  a 
feint — that  as  soon  as  his  money  failed  he  would 
be  flung  aside  and  laughed  at  for  his  idiocy.  He 
saw  no  more  of  her  until  several  years  after,  when 
he  was  in  Italy  with  his  Wife.  Before  then,  the 
woman  had  fascinated  the  young  American, 
Tracy,  and  he  had  actually  married  her,  knowing 
nothing  of  her  antecedents.  Nathalie  was  a  year 
old  when  the  truth  came  out.  The  unfortunate 
husband  lost  his  life  in  a  duel  with  a  man  as 


ME.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


49 


worthless  as  the  woman  on  whose  account  he 
fought.  Previous  to  that,  Madame  had  tried  to 
regain  her  old  ascendency  over  Robert  Crauford, 
and  failed.  By  way  of  having  revenge,  she  wrote 
him  letters,  and  managed  that  they  should  fall 
into  the  hands  of  his  wife — letters  which  revealed 
the  old  intimacy,  and  implied  that  it  had  been 
begun  anew. 

This  was  the  cause  of  the  outbreak  of  which 
I  spoke.  Crauford  had  been  at  length  able  to 
convince  Laura  that,  in  the  present  instance,  he 
was  blameless,  and  a  peace  was  patched  up,  but 
he  knew  that,  t«  her  dying  day,  his  wife  never 
forgot  the  knowledge  of  his  past  which  she  had 
thus  gained. 

It  was  not  surprising  that,  of  all  human  be- 
ings, he  believed  this  Nina_  the  worst — that  the 
bare  recollection  of  her  after  these  years  could 
make  him  shudder.  Aojl  now  actually  to  be 
face  to  face  with  her  again — to  know  that  his 
daughter  had  been  in  her  company,  held  her 
hand,  was  friendly  with  her  child ! — this  woman, 
who  had  akuost  wrecked  his  youth,  who  had 
nearly  lost  him  the  wife  he  loved.  Certainly  one 
would  require  to  get  nearer  perfection  than  hu- 
manity often  does  to  support  such  a  catastrophe 
with  any  show  of  patience. 

"  How  can  you  be  so  hard  on  me  ?"  cried  Ma- 
dame. "  See  what  a  wreck  I  am !  I  have  been  a 
changed  woman  for  years.  Ask  my  Cure  here — 
ask  my  Cure  at  Dijon.  I  am  dying  slowly ;  I 
suffer  horribly ;  I  am  trying  to  make  my  salva- 
tion. Oh,,  it  is  cruel  to  force  yourself  on  me, 
and  to  say  wicked  things,  and  to  look  at  me  like 
that !" 

"I  do  not  wish  to  be  hard  on  you ;  it  is  not 
for  me  to  judge,"  Mr.  Crauford  said,  falteringly. 
Then  he  remembered  Elizabeth,  and  his  voice 
grew  more  stern.  "You  ought  not  to  have  let 
my  daughter  come  here.  I  blame  you  for  that. " 
"It  was  not  for  me;  I  have  only  seen  her  a 
few  times.  Nathalie  is  so  fond  of  her,"  pleaded 
Madame.  "  Nathalie  is  good ;  she  has  lived 
always  in  a  convent.  She  knows  nothing, 
changed  my  name  to  L'Estrange  while  she  was 
a  little  thing.  She  is  to  marry  Monsieur  La 
Tour." 

"Good  Lord!"  cried  Mr.  Crauford,  struck  by 
a  sudden  thought.  "  Does  he  know — does — " 

"Oh,  he  is  a  kind  man,"  broke  in  Madame 
"He  is  not  like  you,  ready  to  crush  my  pooi 
child  for  her  mother's  faults.     And  I  was  not  so 
bad ;  there  were  many  worse.    I  often  repented 
and  once  I  gave  a  diamond  bracelet  on  hearing 
a  charity  sermon.     Let  my  child  alone.     I  am 
dying.     She  will  be  Madame  La  Tour,  and  livi 
a  quiet,  respected  life." 

"I  have  no  wish  to  interfere.  I  will  not  hav 
my  daughter  meet  her,  that  is  all,"  said  Mr 
Cranford. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  cried  Madam 
in  terror. 

D 


"I  shall  go  away — " 

"Ah!  I  wish  you  would,"  interrupted  Ma- 
lame,  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  "I  have  never  felt 
easy  since  I  heard  you  were  here.  I  tell  you  I 
;m  trying  to  make  my  salvation.  I  do  not  like 
o  meet  people  that  remind  me  of  the  past.  I 
ast  and  pray.  I  try  so  hard,  and  I  am  afraid — 
afraid!" 

She  flung  up  her  arms,  and  her  voice  rose  al- 
most to  a  shriek.     Mr.  Crauford  only  asked  to 
;et  out  of  the  room ;  his  nerves  would  not  stand 
any  further  shocks. 

"We  can  none  of  us  do  more  than  repent," 
said  he,  rather  clumsily,  after  searching  in  vain 
"or  some  consolatory  words. 

"No,  the  Cure  says  that,  and  I  repent — I  do. 
Look  at  me ;  could  I  wish  to  be  wicked  ?  My 
youth  is  gone,  my  beauty  is  gone.  Oh,  I  was  so 
Beautiful!  And  now  I  am  dying.  Why  could 
[  not  have  been  left  to  get  very  old,  and  grow  ac- 
customed to  the  idea  of  the  next  world  ?  I  have 
money  enough  to  live  on,  and  I  could  have  been 
quite  comfortable.  To  be  sure  it  is  tiresome 
leading  a  good  life,  but  one  would  get  used  to  it. 
Oh  me,  oh  me!" 

"I — I  must  go,"  stammered  Mr.  Crauford. 

"  Go,  then,"  returned  Madame,  violently.  "  I 
hate  all  men.  I  despise  you.  I  wish  I  had 
ruined  you  outright.  What  busiaess  have  you 
to  look  well  and  strong  when  I  am  dying?" 

Her  sudden  fury  rendered  him  more  nervous, 
but  he  could  not  even  then  endure  hearing  that 
he  looked  vigorous. 

"  My  health  is  wretched,"  he  said ;  "  I  am  a 
great  sufferer." 

"You  are  a  hypochondriac.  Monsieur  La 
Tour  told  me,"  retorted  Madame.  "You  are 
rich  and  lazy ;  so  yon  indulge  in  little  illnesses 
by  way  of  occupation." 

Mr.  Crauford  felt  more  convinced  than  ever 
that  the  woman  was  a  fiend.  He  doubted  wheth- 
er any  amount  of  penitence  could  help  her. 

"Are  you  going?"  asked  Madame,  as  he 
moved  toward  the  door. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  peevishly.  "The  idea 
of  my  having  strayed  here ! " 

"Come  back.  I'll  tell  you  something  first! 
You  are  rich,  and  prosperous,  and  well.  Why 
should  you  not  bear  part  of  the  burden  that  op- 
presses me  ?  Come  back,  I  say !" 

She  was  so  fierce  in  voice  and  aspect  that  he 
involuntarily  yielded  to  the  potent  will  which  had 
once  ruled  him  so  entirely.  Madame  clutched 
his  arm  with  her  bony  fingers,  bent  toward  him 
till  her  hot,  feverish  breath  made  him  shudder. 
She  whispered  a  few  words  in  his  ear,  then  pushed 
him  roughly  away. 

"Now  go  and  try  your  hand  at  repenting!" 
she  exclaimed.  "  There  is  something  for  you  to 
bear  as  well  as  me." 

Mr:  Crauford  looked  pale  and  alarmed.  Some 
broken  words  fell  from  his  lips.  First  Madame 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


laughed,  then  a  new  spasm  of  physical  pain  and 
mental  trouble  seized  her. 

4 '  I  try  to  repent — I  do  try ! "  she  moaned.  ' '  I 
am  haunted  by  ghosts,  and  all  my  prayers  will 
not  quiet  them.  But  others  are  more  to  blame 
than  I.  Nobody  taught  me,  nobody  told  me  ! 
My  own  mother  made  me  what  I  am — what  I 
was — for  I  am  changed,  I  am.  Oh,  go  away ; 
let  me  alone.  I  want  the  Cure'  —  the  doctor; 
perhaps  I  am  dying  already.  Oh,  my  soul!  Oh, 
my  poor  soul !  Oh,  I  can  not — " 

Mr.  Crauford  heard  Susanne's  voice  and  step 
on  the  gallery,  and  fled. 

When  Elizabeth  came  home  she  found  her  fa- 
ther in  a  state  of  great  agitation,  and  learned 
that  they  were  to  start  for  Italy  the  next  day. 
lie  was  obliged  at  length  to  tell  her  that  he  had 
seen  Madame  L'Estrange,  and  recognized  her  as 
a  woman  whom  it  was  not  proper  for  her  to  ap- 
proach. 

44  You  are  unjust  to  visit  her  faults,  whatever 
they  may  have  been,  on  Nathalie ;  she  is  not  to 
blame,"  Elizabeth  said. 

"  That  woman  once  came  near  killing  your 
mother.  I  can  not  tell  you  thd  story*.  The 
daughter  will  do  you  some  harm  too.  I'll  not 
have  you  near  her. " 

This  was  all  the  explanation  she  could  gain. 
It  brought  Nathalie's  superstitious  fancy  to  Eliza- 
beth's mind  :  but  she  was  not  given  to  yielding 
to  such  follies. 

•    44 1  am  ill — I  need  change — I  insist  on  starting 
at  once." 

Her  father  took  refuge  in  this  plaint,  and  there 
was  no  more  to  be  said. 

"It  is  so  sudden,  so  sudden,"  sobbed  Nathalie, 
when  Elizabeth  carried  her  the  news.  "And 
mamma  is  ill.  Ah,  me !  these  have  been  such 
happy  weeks!  Good-bye,  darling  —  good-bye! 
And  I  shall  never  see  you  again  ;  I  am  not  even 
to  write  to  you.  There  is  something  wrong,  I 
know,  by  the  way  your  father  behaves,  and  mam- 
ma will  tell  me  nothing — only  shiver  and  moan, 
and  rave  against  you  both." 

Happy  weeks,  but  they  were  over. 

44  At  least,"  thought  Nathalie,  when  she  had 
cried  herself  ill  and  blind — "  at  least  I  can  do  her 
no  harm.  She  is  gone,  and  I  shall  never  see  her 
any  more ;  and  I  loved  her  so — my  Qneenie,  my 
beautiful  Elizabeth !" 


CHAPTER  IX. 
NATHALIE'S  HERO. 

N  ITIIALIE  spent  several  very  lonely,  miserable 
:cr  Elizabeth  Cranford's  hasty  departure; 
mid  when  Nathalie  set  about  being  wretched  she 
threw  her  whole  soul  into  the  business,  just  ns 
she  did  when  pleasure,  or  any  other  excitement, 
actuated  her. 


She  used  to  sit  by  the  lake  and  moan  that  she 
could  not  endure  this  dull  existence,  and  watch 
the  waves  and  think  about  suicide,  and  wonder 
if  Monsieur  La  Tour  would  never  come  and  take 
her  away.  His  image  looked  absolutely  agreea- 
ble to  her  during  this  dead  season  ;  and  she  wrote 
him  letters  two  days  in  succession,  which  made 
his  elderly  heart  thrill  with  delight.  But  Mon- 
sieur could  not  leave  his  post — his  relative  still 
lingered  and  would  not  hear  of  his  going.  Mon- 
sieur was  in  love,  but  then  he  was  nearly  sixty, 
and  at  that  age  Romeo  does  not  willfully  throw 
away  the  chance  of  inheriting  a  hundred  thou- 
sand francs.  But  I  do  Monsieur  a  little  injus- 
tice :  he  would  have  stayed  if  there  had  been  no 
money  in  the  question.  The  old  maid  begged 
so  piteously  for  his  presence  that  he  could  not 
have  found  the  heart  to  leave  her. 

Madame  L'Estrange  suffered  terribly,  and  her 
mental  anxieties  added  to  her  pain.  She  was 
haunted  by  the  dread  that  something  would  pre- 
vent the  marriage,  and  she  scolded  Nathalie  and 
raved  at  Susanne,  and  prayed  and  begged  their 
pardons,  and  rushed  from  one  scene  to  another 
so  rapidly  that  even  a  very  good  person  could 
not  much  have  blamed  the  young  girl  for  getting 
away  from  her  whenever  she  could,  or  Susanne 
for  thinking  it  would  be  far  better  if  Madame 
were  safe  in  the  next  world,  and  they  repeating 
masses  for  the  repose  of  her  soul. 

At  least  Nathalie  had  a  great  deal  of  time  to 
herself,  though  it  was  a  sorry  business  to  go 
wandering  about  among  the  haunts  where  she 
and  Elizabeth  had  spent  so  many  happy  hours. 
There  was  an  old  woman,  some  relation  of  the 
fermier,  who  was  glad  to  earn  a  few  sous  by 
playing  sheep-dog  for  Nathalie's  benefit.  But 
Nathalie  usually  found  her  some  commodious 
resting-place,  and  gave  her  chestnuts  and  bon- 
bons to  eat,  while  she  strolled  on  alone.  The 
old  woman's  chatter  and  slow  steps  annoyed  her, 
though  she  hated  solitude  too.  It  was  Novem- 
ber, the  nuts  were  all  gathered,  many  of  the 
trees  had  lost  their  leaves — even  the  poplars 
wore  a  golden  crown,  which  showed  that  they 
must  soon  suffer  like  their  companions — only 
the  weeping  willows  were  as  fresh  and  luxuriant 
as  ever,  and  would  remain  so  until  the  ensuing 
month.  But  late  in  the  season  as  it  was,  the 
days  were  balmy  and  bright ;  one  could  still  sit 
for  hours  in  the  open  air.  The  little  valley  was 
so  sheltered  that  a  nook  in  the  south  of  Italy 
would  not  have  been  wanner  or  more  sunny. 
Roses  still  bloomed  in  the  gardens,  and  the 
autumn  flowers  were  out  in  full  beauty.  Each 
day  the  grand  old  mountains  grew  more  stately 
and  seemed  to  increase  in  height.  Often  the 
snow  fell  at  night,  and  the  morning  woidd  find 
them  wrapped  half-way  down  their  sides  in  a 
white  mantle  that  looked  as  if  studded  with  jew- 
els. Just  across  the  lake,  in  the  Savoy  country, 
the  snow  sometimes  swept  to  the  water's  edge, 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


51 


but  not  a  flake  fell  in  the  Montreux  valley,  and 
fires,  except  of  an  evening,  were  not  to  be 
thought  of. 

The  glory  of  the  landscape  increased ;  the 
sunset  tints  and  changes  waxed  more  gorgeous 
and  wonderful ;  the  soft  haze  that  lay  over  the 
scene  of  an  afternoon,  and  the  morning  halo  on 
the  mountains,  were  enough  to  drive  one  wild 
from  sheer  excess  of  beauty.  But  it  was  a  sad 
time  to  Nathalie,  nor  did  she  love  Nature  enough 
to  study  and  admire  it  alone.  She  could  weave 
romances,  and  dream  exciting  visions,  and  her 
fancy  and  imagination  were  quick  and  creative  ; 
but  she  did  not  like  solitude,  and  wo"uld  rather 
have  looked  out  on  the  Boulevards  than  down 
from  the  heights  of  the  Rhigi. 

One  day,  straight  into  the  midst  of  her  rest- 
lessness, her  desire  for  change  and  excitement, 
her  longing  for  adventure,  her  hash  of  tran- 
scendental and  socialistic  theories,  came  Darrell 
Vaughan,  and  the  danger  which  any  one  who 
had  studied  Nathalie's  character  must  have 
dreaded  rushed  upon  her  without  the  slightest 
warning. 

This  was  the  way  it  befell.  It  chanced  that 
Darrell's  banker  in  Paris  was  the  man  who  had 
charge  of  Madame  L'Estrange's  matters,  and 
managed  for  her  the  bonds  and  shares  which 
made  up  her  competency.  Vaughan  had  known 
this  banker  formerly  in  America,  and  he  chose 
to  be  very  civil  during  the  time  Darrell  was  in 
Paris — a  period  which  the  young  gentleman 
lengthened  beyond  his  original  intention,  as 
young  gentlemen  will  a  stay  in  the  fascinating 
city. 

Vaughan  never  told  his  private  affairs  to  any 
body  ;  but  mentioning  to  the  banker  that  he  was 
going  to  Clarens,  that  personage  ventured  to 
burden  him  with  some  documents  for  Madame 
L'Estrange,  aware  that  the  lady,  Frenchwoman 
like,  would  be  grateful  to  him  for  sparing  her 
the  expense  of  the  postage  on  the  heavy  papers. 
The  banker's  daughter  had  been  a  companion  of 
Nathalie's  at  the  convent,  and  showed  Vaughan 
a  marvelous  photograph  of  the  girl,  a  picture 
which  brought  out  her  peculiar  beauty  in  its 
highest  perfection.  Of  Madame  L'Estrange  the 
banker  only  knew  that  she  was  the  relative  and 
inheritor  of  an  old  acquaintance  of  his;  he  had 
assumed  the  care  of  her  business  on  that  ac- 
count, never  connecting  her  in  any  way  with 
the  woman  whose  celebrity  had  once  been  some- 
thing to  make  sober  people  shudder. 

Before  Darrell  left  Paris  he  learned  that  he 
must  go  on  to  Pisa  to  find  the  Craufords,  but 
he  did  not  alter  his  intention  of  passing  by 
Geneva  and  Clarens,  informing  himself  that  it 
would  not  be  too  late  to  cross  comfortably  over 
the  Simplon  into  Italy,  and  having  no  mind  to 
lose  a  glimpse  of  the  beautiful  lake  because  the 
people  he  meant  to  join  had  seen  fit  to  change 
their  plans.  This  was  his  second  visit  to 


Europe,  and  portions  of  Switzerland  he  knew 
well,  though  not  the  Lake  of  Geneva  region. 

So  it  happened  that  one  bright  afternoon 
Nathalie,  sitting  to  rest  on  the  steps  of  the 
chalet  after  a  walk,  suddenly  became  conscious 
that  a  very  handsome  man  was  standing  at  a 
little  distance  contemplating  her.  Look  and 
manner  were  both  a  compliment,  in  spite  of  the 
rudeness :  he  seemed  to  have  stopped  short  to 
stare  literally  because  he  could  not  help  it.  He 
came  on  now,  and  Nathalie  rose ;  and  he  said,  in 
very  fair  French — 

"I  beg  a  thousand  pardons ;  it  is  Mademoiselle 
L'Estrange,  I  am  sure.  I  am  Darrell  Vaughan." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Nathalie,  with  one  of  her 
quick,  beautiful  blushes,  that  came  from  excite- 
ment, not  shyness.  "Monsieur  Guyou  wrote 
mamma  you  had  been  good  enough  to  take 
charge  of  a  package.  She  will  be  so  much 
obliged  !  Please  come  in.  I  shall  see  if  mam- 
ma is  well  enough  to  thank  you.  I  fear — " 

She  led  him  through  the  dark  passage  into 
the  little  salon,  and  sped  off  down  the  gallery  to 
her  mother's  apartments.  Madame  would  have 
been  glad  of  the  opportunity  to  see  a  stranger, 
but  she  really  was  not  able.  She  tried  to  sit  up 
and  think  she  might  be  dressed  and  rouged,  but 
a  whole  night  of  pain  had  left  her  so  weak  and 
nervous  that  the  bare  effort  to  raise  herself  was 
such  misery  that  she  began  to  cry. 

"  It  is  always  so,"  she  moaned.  "  I  am  not 
allowed  the  least  pleasure — it  is  hard !  I  shall 
not  pray  to  St.  Joseph  any  more ;  he  is  no  use 
whatever.  I  shall  tell  the  Cure  to  choose  me 
somebody  else  !  0  won  Dleu  !  mon  Dieu  /" 

But  she  sent  Nathalie  to  the  guest.  Of  course 
Susanne  must  go  to  play  propriety ;  and  Madame 
lay  back  among  her  pillows  and  wept,  and  up- 
braided St.  Joseph  for  his  cruelty  in  not  finding 
her  a  brief  strength  sufficient  to  receive  a  male 
visitor. 

"  Mamma  is  so  sorry  ;  she  is  suffering  dread- 
fully to-day.  She  hopes  that  you  will  come 
soon  again,"  Nathalie  said,  as  she  appeared 
anew  at  the  door  of  the  salon,  with  Susanne 
peeping  over  her  shoulder — that  worthy  creature 
as  much  excited  as  her  betters  over  the  arrival 
of  a  handsome  gentleman. 

Nathalie  spoke  in  English ;  she  did  not  ex- 
pect to  say  nor  hear  any  thing  to  which  Susanne 
might  not  listen — still  it  was  a  pleasure  to  speak 
a  language  unintelligible  to  the  inquisitive  old 
creature. 

"  How  beautifully  you  speak  English," 
Vanghan  said. 

"I  ought — I  one  half  your  country  woman," 
returned  she,  proudly. 

Darrell  knew  this  as  well  as  she.  Perhaps 
there  were  not  three  persons  in  all  Switzerland 
acquainted  with  the  old  life  and  former  name  of 
Madame  L'Estrange.  But  Darrell  had  met  at 
Vevay  on  the  previous  night  a  man  who  told 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR 


him  enough  to  make  him  feel  that  he  could 
adopt  toward  the  daughter  a  manner  different 
from  what  he  would  have  ventured  on  under 
other  circumstances ;  and  to  Nathalie,  with  her 
head  full  of  novels,  the  most  exaggerated  lan- 
guage, even  to  an  avowal  of  love  during  their 
first  interview,  would  have  appeared  perfectly 
natural. 

"I  am  sorry  Madame  can  not  see  me,"  he 
went  on.  "  Must  I  go  away  at  once  ?" 

His  face  grew  so  eager — his  voice  so  pleading ! 

"No,  no,"  laughed  Nathalie.  "  One  does  not 
have  visitors  often  enough  in  this  dull  place  to 
be  willing  to  lose  them." 

"And  I  have  looked  fonvard  for  days  to  this 
pleasure,"  he  said.  "Do  you  think  one  must 
take  weeks  and  weeks  to  grow  acquainted  ? 
Mademoiselle,  I  met  your  old  friend,  Marie 
Guy  on ;  she  showed  me  your  picture.  I  ought 
not  to  say  so,  but  it  was  that  picture  brought  me 
to  Clarens.  Are  you  angry  ?" 

Nathalie  was  a  good  deal  fluttered,  but  she 
enjoyed  the  scene,  and  was  quite  ready  to  take 
her  part.  She  answered  gayly ;  she  could  treat 
his  words  as  idle  badinage,  but  they  moved  her 
nevertheless,  and  he,  watching  the  sensitive  face, 
could  see  that. 

Susanne  sat  upright  in  her  chair  under  the 
shadow  of  her  cap-tower,  and  stared  at  the  two. 
She  would  have  given  her  ears  to  know  what 
they  were  talking  about,  and  had  three  minds 
to  risk  a  hint  to  her  young  lady  that  she  ought 
to  speak  French. 

They  talked  of  her  school-life,  of  Marie  Guyon ; 
they  strayed  away  to  other  topics ;  and  Vaughan, 
with  his  usual  quickness  to  read  and  understand 
others,  was  soon  as  well  able  to  tell  what  subjects 
•would  interest  her,  what  an  impossible  hash  of 
sentiment,  romance,  and  false  theories  there  was 
in  her  mind,  as  if  he  had  known  her  for  months. 

Nathalie  spoke  of  her  newly  acquired  friend 
•who  had  recently  gone  from  her.  Did  Mr. 
Vaughan  know  the  Craufords  ?  No,  Mr.  Vangh- 
an  did  not.  He  wondered  if  the  two  young 
women  were  in  correspondence — he  must  dis- 
cover. It  did  not  require  much  artful  question- 
ing to  draw  Nathalie  out,  for  her  heart  was  full 
of  this  subject.  Mr.  Vaughan  had  been  sitting 
there  some  time ;  they  had  talked  themselves 
far  past  the  beginning  of  an  acquaintance — con- 
versation that  was  new  to  Nathalie,  which  pos- 
sessed a  keen  fascination,  because  it  was  like  the 
talk  in  the  books  Blanche  de  Savigny's  cousin 
used  to  procure  for  them  to  read. 

That  dragon  and  guard  of  the  proprieties  and 
youthful  virtue,  tightly-laced  Susanne,  had  gone 
fast  asleep  in  her  chair  after  the  fatigues  of  her 
mi-tress's  bad  night.  She  sat  upright  as  ever, 
but  her  cap-tower  had  tilted  a  little  to  one  side, 
her  hands  were  crossed  in  her  lap,  and  faint 
murmurs,  like  the  distant  hum  of  bees,  proceeded 
from  her  parted  lips.  Darrell  called  Nathalie's 


attention  to  this.  They  both  laughed,  then  went 
out  on  the  gallery,  and  sat  down,  perhaps  good- 
naturedly  desirous  not  to  disturb  the  woman's 
slumbers ;  for  Nathalie  mentioned  the  tiresome 
watch,  and  was  in  a  mood  to  do  justice  to  Su- 
sanne's  merits  in  general. 

"But  you  were  telling  me  about  this  friend 
of  yours,"  Vaughan  said. 

"Ah,  yes — I  loved  her  so — she  is  very  beau- 
tiful, and  so  wise  and  good !  I  tried  to  hate  her 
for  that,  but  I  could  not.  And  I  shall  not  see 
her  any  more — ve  do  not  even  write  letters.  Is 
it  not  sad  ?" 

"But  why?" 

"Indeed  I  do  not  know — I  think  Elizabeth 
does  not  either.  Only  just  at  the  last,  Mr.  Crau- 
ford — such  a  stupid  old  man,  with  a  horrid  nose 
— found  out — well,  mamma  did  not  explain,  so 
I  could  hardly  understand.  But  it  seems  he 
and  my  papa  were  enemies,  and  mamma  and 
Mr.  Crauford  were  both  shocked  to  find  they 
had  been  living  near  one  another,  and  that  their 
daughters  were  intimate. " 

"A  little  hard  for  you  and  Miss — Cranford, 
is  it  not? — to  visit  old  quarrels  on  you,"  said 
Darrell. 

"  Yes ;  but  we  shall  not  see  each  other  any 
more,"  sighed  Nathalie.  "It  was  best;  I  know 
it  was,"  she  added,  rather  to  herself  than  him ; 
for  she  was  thinking  of  her  superstitious  pre- 
sentiment. "It  was  all  so  hurried.  I  scarcely 
cried  till  she  was  gone — she  did  not,  so  I  kept 
my  tears  back.  Perhaps  her  father  prejudiced 
her  against  us.  She  was  fond  of  me,  but  I  am 
sure  she  always  disapproved.  Ah,  well,  she  is 
gone :  let  us  talk  of  other  things,  this  saddens 
me." 

"I  should  fancy  she  must  be  a  rather  disa- 
greeable girl — a  kind'  of  Minerva  and  Mentor, 
and  that  sort  of  thing,"  said  Vaughan. 

"Ah,  you  do  not  know  what  you  are  talking 
about,"  cried  Nathalie,  impatiently.  ("I  could 
tell  you  so  many  charming  things — but  I  sup- 
pose you  do  not  remain  here  long?" 

"That  will  depend  on  you,"  he  replied. 
"Would  you  like  me  to  stay  ?" 

"Oh,  mamma  will  be  charmed  to  make  your 
acquaintance." 

"Please  don'*  treat  me  to  a  propriety  an- 
swer," he  exclaimed.  "Shall  I  stay?" 

She  gave  him  a  merry,  coquettish  glance,  but 
her  color  rose  under  his  prolonged  gaze.  There 
was  a  little  vase  of  flowers  on  the  rustic  table  by 
her  side.  She  took  out  a  Marguerite,  and  began 
picking  off  leaf  after  leaf,  looking  at  him  from 
under  her  downcast  lashes,  as  she  said — 

"  He  shall  stay — he  shall  not — he  shall  stay — 
he — oh, Mr. Vaughan,  the  Marguerite  says  No!" 
There  was  real  disappointment  in  her  voice;  one 
of  her  chief  weaknesses  was  a  strange  faith  in 
omens  and  superstitions  fancies  and  practices  of 
all  sorts. 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


53 


"You  did  not  do  it  fairly,"  said  Darrell. 
"Once  you  picked  off  two  leaves  at  the  same 
time." 

"Are  you  sure?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"Quite  sure.     I  shall  stay — it  is  destiny." 

He  laughed,  hut  he  spoke  seriously  neverthe- 
less. Nathalie's  head  was  in  a  whirl  As  she 
had  often  said  to  Elizabeth,  her  theories  were 
immense ;  but  practically  she  was  very  ignorant 
of  matters  concerning  which  she  thought  and 
talked  much.  This  handsome  man,  with  his  soft 
voice  and  fascinations  of  speech,  coming  so  un- 
expectedly upon  her,  and  finding  the  way  to  stir 
at  once  her  fancy,  dazed  and  bewildered  her. 
Now,  for  the  first  time,  she  remembered  Mon- 
sieur La  Tonr.  It  seemed  as  if  a  cold  wind  blew, 
without  warning,  straight  over  her  naked  soul. 
She  looked  pale,  and  absolutely  frightened. 

' '  Oh,  I  forgot ! "  she  sighed. 

"  What  is  that  ?"  he  asked. 

' '  Monsieur  La  Tour  will  be  back.  Did  not 
Marie  tell  you?" 

"  She  told  me  nothing  about  any  such  person 
—who  is  he  ?'' 

"I — I  am  to  marry  Monsieur  La  Tour,"  she 
replied. 

Vaughan  rose  quickly.  As  he  turned  away, 
she  caught  one  passionate  exclamation  from  his 
lips.  Presently  he  came  back,  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

"Farewell,  Mademoiselle  L'Estrange,"  he  said, 
in  an  odd,  choked  voice.  "You  are  right — I 
can  not  stay." 

Without  another  word  of  adieu,  he  was  gone. 

"I  think,"  observed  Vaughan  to  his  familiar, 
as  he  took  the  road  back  to  Vevay,  "that  I 
made  as  neat  an  ending  to  the  scene  as  one 
could  wish.  What  a  fascinating  creature  she 
is !  Hum !  Well,  coute  qui  coute,  I  shall  not  go 
away  yet,  in  spite  of  Monsieur  La  Tour  and  the 
philosophic  Miss  Crauford." 

Susanne,  roused  from  her  slumbers  by  the 
hurried  passing  of  her  guest  through  the  salon, 
came  out  on  the  gallery  in  search  of  Nathalie. 
She  began  a  voluble  dissertation  upon  the  gen- 
tleman's charms.  Nathalie  recovered  herself 
enough  -to  rise  and  go  away.  She  could  not 
endure  the  sight  of  a  human  face  or  the  sound 
of  a  human  voice.  She  hurried  to  her  bedroom, 
locked  the  door,  and  there  she  moaned  and  wept 
like  a  crazy  thing.  She  should  never  see  him 
any  more ;  he  had  come  and  gone  like  a  dream. 
Was  it  that  he  loved  her  ?  Ah,  he  had  come 
because  of  this ;  he  had  loved  her  from  seeing 
her  picture.  Now  he  was  gone !  She  had  had 
one  glimpse  into  heaven,  and  been  cast  back 
upon  the  bleak  rocks !  Life  had  just  roused  it- 
self, a  real  life,  and  been  snatched  away !  Noth- 
ing lay  before  her  but  misery  and  anguish,  and 
Monsieur  La  Tour — how  she  hated  him  !  The 
old  idea  of  running  off  and  going  on  the  stage 
beset  her ;  the  morbid  whim  for  suicide ;  a  j 


score  of  impossible  and  absurd  ideas  flashed  up. 
But  it  was  all  reality  to  her.  She  suffered  ;  she 
was  half  mad  with  pain.  This  was  the  man  Fate 
meant  her  to  love,  and  he  was  gone  forever. 

Vevay  promised  to  make  a  pleasant  resting- 
place  for  a  time.  Vaughan  had  met  several 
young  Englishmen  with  card -playing  propen- 
sities, and  passed  a  jolly  evening.  That  night 
he  ventured  on  a  dose  of  hasheesh  for  the  first 
time  for  weeks,  having  discovered,  from  the  ef- 
fect of  his  later  indulgences,  that  he  must  be- 
ware how  he  played  with  the  drug.  He  had 
missed  the  poison  terribly ;  for  a  while  he  was 
much  oppressed  and  upset ;  no  other  stimulant 
took  its  place.  But  Vaughan  had  no  intention 
of  becoming  a  slave  to  the  habit ;  he  meant  to 
keep  it,  a  useful  servant  when  brilliant  efforts 
were  needed.  So  he  tried  the  hasheesh  before 
going  to  bed,  just  to  be  certain  that  leaving  it 
off  for  a  season  was  the  only  thing  necessary. 
His  attempt  proved  perfectly  successful  Not 
only  was  he  treated  to  a  gorgeous  vision,  but, 
before  his  faculties  escaped  control,  he  found 
himself  able  to  finish  a  bit  of  writing  which  he 
had  hitherto  failed  in  completing  to  his  satisfac- 
tion— a  passage  in  a  political  article  for  a  review. 
Vaughan  had  no  mind  to  be  forgotten  by  the 
public,  and  his  speeches  and  papers  similar  to 
the  present  were  not  unfrequent. 

For  reasons  which  it  is  not  necessary  to  dwell 
upon  here  he  had  deferred  trying  for  a  renom- 
ination  to  Congress.  The  Administration  was 
one  opposed  to  his  politics,  yet  the  causes  seized 
on  for  opposition  by  his  party  in  the  House  and 
Senate  chanced  to  be  matters  which  he  could 
see  would  hereafter  render  those  men  personally 
unpopular.  If  he  accepted  a  nomination  and 
won  his  seat,  it  would  be  impossible  to  separate 
himself  from  their  interests.  Better  to  wait. 
Two  years  from  this  autumn  there  would  be  a 
Presidential  election.  The  party  to  which  he 
belonged  was  sure  to  bring  in  its  nominee. 
Then  he  would  go  to  Congress.  During  the 
two  closing  years  of  that  Presidency  he  might 
take  a  diplomatic  appointment,  if  questions  giv- 
ing promise  of  an  opportunity  to  distinguish 
himself  should  arise  with  any  foreign  govern- 
ment. In  the  mean  time  he  wrote,  as  I  say, 
occasional  brilliant  articles,  made  effective 
speeches,  and  managed  to  keep  himself  before 
the  world  as  a  rising  man  of  whom  great  things 
were  to  be  expected. 

While  in  London  he  had  been  called  on  to 
deliver  an  address  at  a  meeting  of  some  inter- 
national society,  and  contrived  to  perform  that 
most  difficult  oratorical  feat — the  satisfying  of 
people  both  in  England  and  America.  The 
London  newspapers  openly  said  it  was  a  pity 
the  Washington  Cabinet  did  not  send  a  man 
like  him,  young  as  he  was,  to  represent  his 
country  at  the  Court  of  St.  James,  instead  of 
the  dull  old  "  fogies  "  usually  chosen  ;  and  of 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


course  the  New  York  journals  sneered  at  the 
British  impertinence,  but  praised  Vaughan  im- 
mensely. 

What  Darrell  proposed  to  himself  by  dawdling 
in  Switzerland  he  did  not  take  the  trouble  to 
think.  He  knew  that  Cromlin  had  gone  to 
California,  so  he  was  not  pressed  for  time 
where  his  interests  in  the  codicil  were  con- 
cerned. In  truth,  Vaughan  was  a  more  vision- 
ary person  than  he  himself  realized  ;  capable  of 
very  reckless  actions,  clear-headed,  as  he  could 
show  on  occasion.  But  his  bold  schemes  had 
hitherto  succeeded  ;  he  had  unbounded  faith  in 
his  own  powers  and  his  luck — the  only  god  he 
recognized. 

I  do  not  mean  that  he  was  an  atheist.  Dar- 
rell Vaughan  was  simply  a  heathen,  and  his 
deity  an  odd  cross  between  fatality  and  chance. 

He  had  an  ardent  craving  for  great  wealth — 
for  acquiring  lands  upon  lands — for  the  power 
that  wealth  gives.  He  had  not  dope  ill  for 
himself  in  certain  transactions  with  a  set  of  men 
at  that  time  all-powerful  in  the  municipal  af- 
fairs of  New  York.  But  Vaughan  had  been 
very  careful,  and  kept  his  record  clean :  what- 
ever disclosures  might  in  the  future  menace  the 
clique,  he  was  safe. 

He  meant  now  to  gain  the  heritage  for  which 
his  uncle  had  given  him  a  chance.  Elizabeth 
Crauford's  fortune,  added  to  that  and  the  riches 
lie  already  possessed,  would  render  him  almost 
a  millionaire.  The  pleasure  of  thwarting  Launce 
Cromlin  counted  for  something  in  his  plan,  too. 
Darrell  nurtured  no  melodramatic  and  mediaeval 
enmity  toward  his  relative ;  in  fact,  he  rather 
liked  the  young  fellow  personally.  But  he  did 
hate  Launce's  honesty  and  purity  of  life.  Neither 
quality  could  be  sneered  at.  for  he  had  to  admit 
that  Launce  was  brave  and  manly.  To  surpass 
his  cousin — leave  Cromlin's  career  a  poor  thing 
in  comparison  with  his  own — had  always  been 
one  of  his  strongest  determinations.  He  would 
have  hesitated  at  no  wrong  to  accomplish  this, 
from  trying  to  make  Launce  show  as  a  villain 
to  shutting  him  up  in  a  mad-house,  if  that  had 
been  possible.  Best  of  all  would  be  to  see 
Launce  struggle  unsuccessfully,  obliged  to  turn 
to  him  for  help.  He  would  fling  him  bounty 
with  great  satisfaction.  If  he  ever  came  to 
need  that,  he  might  really  hope  for  Vaughan's 
regard. 

A  lover  of  pleasure,  passionate,  sensual — an 
ugly  word  to  write,  but  I  can  not  cure  myself 
of  the  habit  of  giving  things  their  true  names 
— Darrell  Vaughan  had  inward  enemies  to 
fight  against  much  more  potent  than  he  knew. 
Indeed,  lie  did  not  make  any  fight.  All  he 
wanted  was  to  preserve  a  fair  exterior  in  the 
world's  eyes.  He  trusted  to  his  own  self-con- 
trol for  keeping  within  bounds,  as  lie  trusted  to 
his  magnificent  physique  standing  the  wear  and 
tear  to  which  he  exposed  it. 


The  next  morning  Nathalie  set  out  for  a 
walk,  up  over  the  hills  toward  Chaillet,  followed 
by  her  old  woman.  Vaughan  joined  her :  he 
had  been  keeping  watch  over  the  house,  and 
saw  her  leave  it. 

Her  smile  of  recognition,  the  glad  light  in 
her  eyes,  would  have  caused  him  to  linger  had 
he  been  on  his  way  to  the  church  to  join  the 
woman  he  meant  to  marry,  trusting  always  to  his 
luck  that  the  delay  should  work  no  harm  to  his 
prospects.  The  possibility  of  carrying  Nathalie 
L'Estrange  off,  yet  not  allowing  the  gratification 
of  his  passion  to  interfere  with  the  marriage  he 
had  sworn  to  make,  occurred  to  him  as  he  hur- 
ried forward  to  meet  the  girl. 

"  I  had  a  hope  of  seeingyou,"  he  said,  eagerly. 
"I  meant  to  have  gone  away  this  morning,  but 
I  could  not.  Did  you  think  me  very  rude  yes- 
terday ?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered;  "very  rude!  In 
France  people  do  not  end  a  visit  so  abruptly." 

Her  smile  would  have  made  much  harsher 
words  sound  pleasant. 

"  You  knew  why  I  went  away  ?"  returned  he. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  but  face  auu  eyes 
belied  that  affectation  of  carelessness. 

"  Listen,"  he  said  —  they  were  speaking 
French.  "You  admitted  yesterday  that  ac- 
quaintance, friendship,  love  even,  were  not  mat- 
ters of  time.  I  went  away  so  abruptly  because 
the  news  of  your  engagement  struck  my  heart 
like  a  blow  from  a  sharp  knife.  I  have  no  right 
to  say  this  ;  it  is  rude,  unheard  of,  what  you 
will — but  it  is  the  truth.  "Will  you  answer  me 
one  question  ?" 

She  had  turned  away  her  head.  She  signed 
him  to  go  on. 

"Do  you  love  this  Monsieur  La  Tour?"  he 
asked. 

"  Mamma  chose  him  for  my  husband,"  she 
replied,  after  an  instant's  hesitation.  "You 
know  how  such  matters  are  arranged  in  my 
country." 

"Oh  yes,"  he  cried,  bitterly  ;  " a  bargain,  nn 
affair  of  buying  and  selling.  And  you  are  sold 
to  him  like  a  slave  in  a  market — to  this  old 
man !  I  asked  about  him  last  night.  You, 
with  your  beauty  and  your  genius,  are  to  be 
bound  to  him !  It  is  horrible,  horrible  !" 

"I  hate  it!"  ejaculated  Nathalie,  setting  her 
little  white  teeth  hard  together.  "Every  day 
I  have  wished  myself  dead !  There,  are  you 
answered  ?  I  care  nothing  for  forms !  It  mat- 
ters not  to  me  that  we  are  what  the  world  would- 
call  strangers.  I  am  glad  to  speak  out  to  some 
human  being." 

"Nor  are  we  actually  strangers,"  he  said. 
"  Our  mutual  friend's  letter  to  your  mother  has 
told  you  all  about  me.  But  that  is  of  no  con- 
sequence. In  any  case  we  should  have  felt  at 
the  first  glance  we  knew  one  another — it  was 
destinv." 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


He  talked  and  she  listened.  It  was  rubbish, 
but  clothed  in  such  beautiful  language  that  it 
appealed  eloquently  to  her  mind,  excited  by 
romances,  and  ready  to  grasp  at  any  brilliant 
sophistry  as  the  real  and  true. 

Soon  after  she  returned  to  the  house.  He 
followed,  and  made  his  call  upon  Madame 
L'Estrange.  She  felt  able  to  receive  him  to- 
day, and  was  charmed  with  his  manners  and 
conversation. 

Four  days  passed,  and  on  each  of  them 
Vaughan  managed  to  see  Nathalie  out  of  her 
mother's  presence.  He  was  wild  about  her — 
ready  to  believe  he  had  never  loved  any  woman 
till  now  ;  but  the  idea  of  sacrificing  his  future  for 
her,  of  taking  to  wife  a  penniless  girl,  the  daugh- 
ter of  Nina  de  Favolles— Tracy— L'Estrange— 
whatever  she  called  herself — never  once  occurred 
to  him. 

Any  excitement  was  always  pleasant;  any 
adventure  out  of  the  common  appealed  to  his 
fancy.  At  least,  these  days  were  a  new  sensa- 
tion ;  these  tete  monUe  conversations  with  Natha- 
lie were  like  reading  a  chapter  in  an  original 
novel.  But  the  mad  idea  which  had  at  the  first 
crossed  his  mind  started  up  as  a  possibility,  and 
was  strong  within  him  when  he  went  out  to 
meet  her  on  this  fourth  day. 

Nathalie's  old  woman  knew  that  she  met 
Vaughan,  and  walked  with  him,  but  she  held 
her  peace.  Nathalie  paid  her  well  for  her  si- 
lence ;  and  as  there  was  no  one  who  tried  to 
buy  disclosures,  she  was  not  tempted  to  sell  her 
knowledge. 

And  this  day  Vaughan  told  his  love — not  that 
he  had  hesitated  to  talk  of  it  before,  but  now  he 
forced  confessions  from  her  lips,  and  Nathalie 
felt  that  she  was  ready  to  trust  him,  stranger  as 
he  was.  Stranger  !  she  would  have  laughed  at 
the  word.  She  seemed  to  have  known  him  for 
years — all  her  life.  The  realization  of  her  wild- 
est dream  had  come — her  visionary  hero  had 
taken  earthly  shape,  and  stood  before  her. 

They  were  standing  on  the  hill,  back  from 
the  road  by  which  the  old  woman  sat  as  usual, 
munching  chestnuts  and  calculating  what  her 
gains  would  be  at  the  end  of  a  month. 

"Hark!"  exclaimed  Nathalie.  "That  was 
Susanne — surely  it  was  the  voice  of  Susanne." 

Vaughan  drew  her  hastily  back  among  the 
trees,  and  they  stood  listening, 

"  Where  is  Mademoiselle,  I  say,  you  silly  old 
thing?"  demanded  Susanne's  piercing  tones. 

"  I  am  telling  you,  or  I  would  if  I  got  a 
chance, "returned  the  other,  raising  her  cracked 
voice  too.  -"Mademoiselle  has  just  stepped  up 
the  hill  for  the  view.  '  Rosine,'  she  said  to  me, 
'  sit  you  here ;  the  hill  is  too  steep  for  your  old 
bones.'  Always  thoughtful  is  Mademoiselle." 

"You  are  a  chattering  magpie, " interrupted 
Susanne.  "  Which  hill,  when  there  is  one  on 
every  side — cabbage  ?" 


"La,  la!  Just  call;  she  will  hear.  Why 
climb  when  there  is  no  need?" 

Then  both  voices  shouted — 

"  Mademoiselle  !  Mademoiselle !" 

"  What  is  it,  Susanne?"  called  Nathalie. 

"Quick — come  home,  quick!  Monsieur  La 
Tour  has  arrived,  and  Madame  is  in  hysterics 
with  joy !  Come  quick,  I  say !" 

Susanne  had  commenced  the  ascent  —  there 
was  no  time  to  lose.  Nathalie  cast  one  despair- 
ing glance  at  Vaughan,  and  fled. 


CHAPTER  X. 
MILADY'S   CELL. 

LAUNCE  CROMLIN'S  voyage  was  a  short  one. 
He  reached  New  York  in  less  than  eleven  days 
from  the  date  of  his  leaving  Liverpool. 

Those  bright,  golden  days  were  not  unpleas- 
ant to  that  dreaming  Launce.  The  ocean  was 
calm  as  a  lake ;  there  were  fine  sunsets  to  watch, 
agreeable  people  on  board,  and  Launce  was  soon 
a  favorite,  as  he  rapidly  became  with  most  per- 
sons. 

He  was  sorely  disturbed  by  the  news  of  his 
uncle's  failing  health,  and  the  long  delay  of  his 
letters.  He  had  expected  to  arrive  at  Montreux 
weeks  before,  and  so  had  ordered  all  his  corre- 
spondence to  be  forwarded  there  from  London. 

The  summons  home  had  been  a  great  happi- 
ness. He  regretted  deeply  now  that  he  had  al- 
lowed pride  to  prevent  his  seeking  his  relative 
long  before.  Even  yet  he  was  ignorant  what 
had  caused  the  old  man's  anger  or  brought  about 
this  new  change  of  feeling.  Mr.  Vaughan  only 
wrote — 

"I  find  that  I  have  done  you  a  great  wrong 
— may  you  and  God  forgive  me!  I  am  ill — 
breaking  fast,  though  I  may  still  last  a  long 
time.  But  I  want  to  see  you.  Will  you  pardon 
your  hot-headed  uncle  and  come  ?  Explanations 
I  can  not  give  in  a  letter.  I  will  not  trust  my 
shameful  suspicions  to  paper.  Come  to  me,  my 
dear  boy,  that  I  may  hear  from  your  own  lips 
that  I  am  pardoned." 

Further  lines  breathing  love  and  tenderness, 
but  not  a  syllable  to  throw  any  light  upon  the 
cause  of  his  estrangement. 

Lnunce  Cromlin  was  six-and-twenty — an  en- 
thusiast, an  artist  who  was  beginning  to  win  a 
name  in  both  Europe  and  America.  He  had 
proved  that  he  possessed,  not  only  genius,  but  the 
ability  to  work  patiently  and  hard,  to  submit  to 
apprenticeship  and  routine,  as  even  genius  must 
do  if  really  great  results  are  to  be  gained.  Sir 
Galahad,  his  artist  associates  used  to  call  him ; 
yet  among  the  most  reckless  there  was  not  one 
but  thoroughly  respected  and  honored  him.  A 
brave,  straightforward,  noble  fellow — manly  in 
every  sense  of  the  word ;  a  man  whom  other 


r>6 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


men  liked  too,  though  he  did  keep  his  youth  free 
from  the  vices  with  which,  under  a  score  of 
pretty  names,  so  many  of  his  compeers  laid  up 
for  themselves  a  bitter  harvest  of  regret  in  the 
future. 

Many  times  during  those  sunny  autumn  days, 
as  Launce  sat  on  deck  watching  the  glorious 
sweep  of  the  mid-ocean  waves,  and  trying  with 
colors  and  brush  to  obtain  hasty  studies  which 
should  hereafter  be  useful  for  tints  and  forms, 
he  dreamed  of  the  romantic  incident  which  had 
marked  his  day  at  Montreux.  He  smiled  often 
at  his  own  folly,  and  told  himself  he  was  as  silly 
as  a  fellow  in  a  romance,  yet  the  beautiful  face 
of  the  insensible  girl  whom  he  had  held  in  his 
aims  still  haunted  him.  After  all  it  was  not 
surprising,  Launce  thought.  Hers  was  a  coun- 
tenance to  strike  any  artist.  He  made  a  study 
of  the  face  from  memory ;  it  would  serve  admir- 
ably some  time.  He  could  imagine  a  picture 
that  might  be  very  effective.  Say  a  long  sweep 
of  sea-beach  with  the  surf  tumbling  in — great 
masses  of  rock  like  those  on  the  Cornish  coast, 
or  at  home  upon  the  shore  of  Maine ;  a  stretch 
of  ocean  in  the  distance,  with  just  those  reflec- 
tions across  the  waves  which  he  was  trying  now 
to  catch ;  upon  the  sands  a  woman's  figure  ly- 
ing, the  face  upraised — the  face  he  had  paint- 
ed from  recollection.  But  not  a  dead  face — 
Launce  never  could  think  of  depicting  it  as 
such.  The  picture  should  suggest  a  tragedy, 
but  not  death. 

So  he  dreamed  and  read  novels,  and  made  ac- 
quaintance with  his  fellow-voyagers,  happier  and 
more  light-hearted  than  ever  at  the  thought  of 
the  clearing  up  of  the  cloud  between  himself  and 
his  uncle,  and  the  quiet  days  took  their  course. 
Land  at  last!  The  great  steamer  passed  up 
the  Narrows,  through  the  beautiful  bay,  and  the 
mighty  city  was  reached. 

It  was  still  early  in  the  morning  when  Crom- 
lin  found  himself  once  more  among  the  busy 
streets  of  his  native  city.  His  first  business  was 
to  rush  off  to  his  hankers,  in  the  hope  that  he 
might  find  letters  from  his  uncle.  There  were 
none.  Then  he  went  to  an  old  friend  of  his  rel- 
ative, who  might  have  news.  The  man  one 
wants  is  never  in  the  way;  lie  whom  Launce 
i-ought  had  strayed  somewhere  into  the  country. 
After  this  there  was  no  step  Launce  could  take 
to  gain  any  information.  He  knew  that  Mr. 
Vaughan  had  gone  to  California  years  before, 
and  could  think  of  no  person  with  whom  the  ret- 
icent old  bachelor  would  be  likely  to  keep  up 
communication.  Who  his  bankers  or  lawyers 
in  New  York  might  be,  Launce  had  no  idea. 

Darrell  was  undoubtedly  in  California — his 
uncle  had  spoken  of  expecting  him  ;  once  there, 
lie  would  of  course  remain  several  months. 
Still  he  sought  for  him  a  little ;  very  uselessly, 
for  he  neither  knew  Darrell's  friends  nor  place 
of  abode.  Launce  had  been  absent  for  five 


years,  and  even  before  that  he  and  his  consin 
had  not  been  intimate.  There  was  no  quarrel 
between  them,  but  their  ways  of  life  were  differ- 
ent. Launce,  too,  knew  Darrell  better  than 
most  people.  Yet  after  the  renunciation  of 
Launce  by  their  uncle,  Darrell  had  behaved  well. 
He  had  hunted  his  cousin  up  in  Europe,  pro- 
fessed himself  in  ignorance  of  the  cause  of  their 
uncle's  anger,  volunteered  to  do  what  he  could 
to  set  matters  right ;  and  altogether  acted  in  so 
frank  and  sympathetic  a  manner  that  Launce 
reproached  himself  for  sundry  hard  thoughts  he 
had  indulged  toward  his  relative. 

But  no  tidings  had  since  reached  him  from 
Darrell,  though  Launce  had  given  him  a  gener- 
al address  at  a  London  banker's.  Darrell  also 
knew  who  his  bankers  were  in  New  York,  which 
had  made  Launce  hope  he  might  find  news  from 
him  there. 

There  was  no  use  in  wasting  time.  He  must 
send  a  telegram  to  San  Francisco,  announcing 
his  arrival,  and  must  recommence  his  journey 
with  the  least  possible  delay.  Inquiries  brought 
the  information  that  a  steamer  was  to  sail  for 
Panama  on  the  following  day.  Launce  drove 
down  to  Bowling  Green  and  secured  his  pas- 
sage, principally  occupied  in  execrating  the  im- 
pudent hackman,  who  proved,  like  his  brethren 
in  general,  a  disgrace  to  New  York,  and  in  la- 
menting that  the  wonderful  rail  which  was  to 
connect  the  Atlantic  and  the  Pacific  coasts  was 
still  a  hope  of  the  future. 

He  reached  the  Everett  House  again.  As  he 
was  descending  from  the  carriage  he  saw  a  hack 
laden  with  luggage  pass,  and  at  the  window  he 
beheld  his  cousin's  face. 

"Darrell!  "he  called. 

The  carriage  whirled  on.  He  could  have 
sworn  that  Darrell's  eyes  met  his ;  it  must  be 
that  he  had  not  recognized  him.  Launce  offer- 
ed a  preposterous  reward  to  his  hackman  if  he 
overtook  the  carriage,  sprang  back  to  his  seat, 
and  off  they  dashed.  All  he  gained  was  a  rapid 
drive  down  Broadway,  a  half  hour  spent  in  a 
press  of  vehicles  at  Fulton  Street,  a  quarrel  with 
the  hackman,  and  a  narrow  escape  of  arrest  by 
the  police  as  a  criminal  or  madman,  from  his 
excitement  at  the  delay. 

While  eating  his  dinner  that  night,  Launce 
glanced  idly  over  the  columns  of  an  evening  pa- 
per, and  read  Darrell  Vaughan's  name  among 
the  list  of  the  passengers  on  a  steamer  which 
had  sailed  that  day  for  Liverpool. 

Launce's  brain  was  in  a  whirl.  Had  Darrell 
gone  in  search  of  him  ?  The  possibility  of  de- 
ceit or  treachery  did  not  suggest  itself  to  his 
mind.  Such  thoughts  do  not  come  readily  to  a 
man  like  Cromlin.  Could  he  at  that  moment  have 
looked  into  the  state-room  of  the  steamer,  where 
his  cousin  lay  very  sea-sick  and  miserable,  he 
would  have  seen  a  triumphant  smile  on  his  pal- 
lid face  ;  and  if  Vaughan's  thoughts  could  have 


MK.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


57 


been  made  audible  to  him,  they  would  have  run 
something  like  this  : 

"A  narrow  thing  indeed,  by  Jove !  Ugh !  this 
cursed  sickness !  He  will  go  straight  on  to  Cal- 
ifornia. A  month  to  go,  a  month  to  get  back 
— more  at  that  season — and  a  hunt  for  the  Crau- 
fords,  should  he  push  over  to  Europe.  Bah  ! 
you  are  '  played '  every  way,  Master  Launce,  as 
usual! — Steward,  are  you  never  coming  with 
that  brandy  ?  Bring  a  bottle  of  champagne  too." 

Long  weeks  after  that  night  Mr.  Carstoe  was 
sitting  one  evening  in  the  library  of  the  villa 
at  Moysterville  where  he  and  Darrell  Vaughan 
had  held  so  many  friendly  chats.  The  house  had 
not  been  rented,  and,  according  to  an  agree- 
ment with  Vaughan,  he  made  it  his  head-quar- 
ters, as  the  housekeeper  refused  to  stay  and  take 
charge  of  the  lonely  place  with  no  better  guard 
for  her  mature  charms  than  Jack,  the  lame  gar- 
dener. 

He  was  awaiting  the  arrival  of  his  old  employ- 
er's other  nephew.  Launce,  on  his  arrival  at 
San  Francisco,  learned  that  his  uncle  had  been 
dead  for  months,  and  that  his  former  agent,  Mr. 
Carstoe,  was  then  at  Moysterville.  Particulars 
Launce  could  not  gain :  he  would  go  on.  He 
telegraphed  to  Mr.  Carstoe  that  he  might  be  ex- 
pected. He  was  broken-hearted  at  these  tidings. 
It  seemed  so  hard  that  his  uncle  should  have 
gone  before  he  could  once  more  hear  words  of 
kindness  from  the  lips  of  the  man  he  had  loved 
so  well.  At  least  he  must  have  left  letters — 
some  explanation  of  the  mystery  which  had  so 
long  separated  them.  No  one  so  likely  to  know 
as  this  Mr.  Carstoe :  he  would  go  in  search  of 
him.  Of  the  fortune — of  his  own  share  therein 
— he  had  no  time  to  think ;  his  mind  was  full 
of  his  sad  loss,  and  the  bitter  disappointment  of 
having  arrived  too  late. 

He  was  worn,  tired ;  another  man  might  have 
fancied  himself  menaced  by  illness ;  but  Launce, 
never  having  been  ill  in  his  life,  set  all  his  odd 
sensations  down  to  the  score  of  fatigue  and 
trouble,  and  hastened  to  reach  his  journey's  end. 

So  this  dark  autumnal  evening  Mr.  Carstoe  sat 
awaiting"  the  arrival  of  his  visitor,  wondering  in 
his  slow  way  why  on  earth  the  young  man 
should  have  come  to  California.  He  must  have 
seen  his  cousin  in  New  York,  or,  if  they  missed 
each  other,  must  have  received  the  letters  which 
would  make  all  matters  clear.  It  was  useless 
for  Mr.  Carstoe  to  go  to  the  station  in  the  dark, 
for  he  and  the  young  gentleman  were  utter  stran- 
gers. Mr.  Cromlin  knew  where  to  come ;  all 
Mr.  Carstoe  could  do  was  to  wait  for  him  in  the 
villa,  and  be  certain  that  the  housekeeper  had  a 
good  dinner  prepared  in  the  guest's  honor. 

And  Launce  arrived.  Late  that  night  he  and 
Mr.  Carstoe  still  sat  in  earnest  conversation. 
There  were  no  letters  for  Launce  ;  Mr.  Carstoe 
had  himself  gone  over  the  papers  of  the  deceased 
at  Darrell's  request. 


"  The  whole  thing  was  terribly  sudden,  though 
he  had  so  long  been  in  poor  health,"  Mr.  Car- 
stoe said.  "  I  am  convinced  that  matters  would 
have  been  different  had  he  not  put  off  too  long. 
I  said  so  to  Mr.  Darrell  Vaughan — I  repeat  it  to 
you." 

Launce  already  knew  that  his  cousin  inherit- 
ed the  fortune — let  him  have  it.  He  did  not 
care  for  the  money,  but  to  have  come  too  late — 
that  was  what  hurt.  The  manner  of  the  bequest 
to  himself  would  prevent  his  ever  touching  it ; 
he  could  receive  nothing  from  Darrell's  bounty 
or  condescension. 

Mr.  Carstoe  told  things  in  a  slow  fashion ;  but 
the  facts  of  the  will,  as  most  important  in  his 
eyes,  came  out  first,  and  he  finally  got  to  the  af- 
fair of  the  codicil.  Launce  was  struck  dumb. 
Even  in  the  dull  misery  of  his  mood  there  rose 
a  vision  of  that  beautiful  face  which  had  so  often 
of  late  haunted  him.  Had  it  been  Fate  which 
showed  her  to  him  that  day  ?  Time  enough  for 
such  dreams  ;  there  was  more  prosaic  business 
on  hand  now. 

"A  full  account  of  these  matters,"  Mr.  Car- 
stoe was  saying, "  your  cousin  and  I  wrote  to  you 
at  your  address  in  New  York,  to  be  forwarded." 

' '  What  address  ?"  asked  Cromlin. 

"Noble  &  Brothers,  Exchange  Place." 

"  I  never  even  heard  their  names  that  I  re- 
member," said  Launce. 

"Very  odd,"  replied  Mr.  Carstoe.  "Your 
cousin  thought  the  letters  would  be  sure  to  reach 
you  there." 

"The  letter  written  me  by  my  uncle — how 
was  that  sent  ?" 

"To  a  Mr.  Sandford,  in  New  York.  By  the 
way,  he  is  dead  too — I  saw  a  notice  in  an  East- 
ern paper.  An  answer  came  from  him  after 
your  uncle's  death  :  he  had  forwarded  the  letter 
for  you  to  a  London  banker,  but  did  not  men- 
tion the  name,  so  your  cousin  thought  we  had 
better  send  ours  to  Noble  &  Brothers." 

"A  strange  insanity  on  Darrell's  part,"  said 
Launce,  dryly. 

"A  series  of  lamentable  errors  on  every  body's," 
observed  Carstoe.  "  Sir,  I  am  heartily  grieved. 
Mr.  Vaughan  was  a  peculiar  man  —  a  difficult 
man ;  but  the  most  honorable  and  straightfor- 
ward one  I  ever  knew.  Sir,  he  was  a  good  friend 
to  me." 

There  had  been  neither  wine  nor  punch  to 
quicken  Mr.  Carstoe's  halting  speech  to-night. 
He  spoke  stiffly,  with  hesitation,  but  what  he  said 
had  at  least  the  merit  of  clearness. 

"  You  are  a  good  man,  Mr.  Carstoe,"  returned 
Launce,  seizing  his  companion's  hand,  and  caus- 
ing Carstoe  to  look  embarrassed  and  miserable 
by  this  impulsiveness.  "See  here,  sir,  I  have  a 
sad  weight  on  my  mind  ;  I  want  to  know  if  you 
can  help  to  clear  it  up." 

Mr.  Carstoe  waited  ;  he  knew  what  was  com- 
ing. Launce  briefly  related  the  story  of  his  un- 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIK. 


cle's  having  suddenly  refused  to  hold  any  com- 
munication with  him  in  that  letter  in  which  he 
had  disowned  and  cast  him  off. 

"  Now,  did  he  ever  talk  to  you  about  it,  Mr. 
Carstoe  ?  Do  you  know  what  he  fancied  I  had 
done?  He  was  a  stern  man,  but  never  unjust." 

Hesitation  would  only  have  been  as  foolish  as 
it  would  be  unkind. 

"  He  did  tell  me,  after  finding  out  his  error 
through  Mr.  Sandford's  investigations,"  Mr. Car- 
stoe said. 

"What  did  he  think?" 

"  That  you  had  falsified  a  check  he  sent  you," 
replied  Mr.  Carstoe. 

Launce  uttered  a  cry.  Mr.  Carstoe  thought 
he  was  fainting,  but  he  soon  recovered  himself. 

"  Tell  me  all  you  can,"  he  said. 

The  agent  gave  the  details.  He  could  even 
recall  the  time  at  which  the  check  had  been  sent 
— Launce's  twenty-first  birthday.  After  a  while 
Launce  spoke. 

"I  never  saw  the  check,"  he  said,  slowly. 
"My  uncle  had  arranged  for  my  first  year's  ex- 
penses in  Europe  while  I  was  with  him  in  Ver- 
mont ;  that  was  the  last  money  I  ever  received. 
I  only  wrote  him  once  before  sailing.  I  had 
wanted  to  keep  my  broken  arm  a  secret  for  fear 
he  should  defer  my  journey.  I  never  saw  that 
check,  Mr.  Carstoe !" 

"That  agrees  with  Mr.  Sandford's  idea  that 
the  bank  teller  must  have  been  in  the  plot.  But 
who  could  have  got  the  check,  and  how  ?" 

"Heaven  knows,"  groaned  Launce.  " There 
is  no  way  to  find  out  now  —  no  step  to  take. 
Why,  it's  like  an  awful  dream!" 

He  stopped  and  passed  his  hand  across  his 
forehead. 

"Remember  that  at  least  your  uncle  lived  to 
believe  in  your  innocence,"  Mr.  Carstoe  said, 
greatly  moved. 

"Thank  God!  Did  he  talk  about  me— did 
he  seem  to  care  for  me?"  Launce's  voice  broke. 

"He  talked  about  you  constantly  during  that 
last  fortnight— mostly  of  the  time  when  you  were 
a  boy.  Ah!  he  had  loved  you  dearly  all  the 
while.  I  was  with  him  more  than  any  body. 
Well,  sir,  I  know  he  meant  to  change  his  will. 
I  supposed  that  Smith  had  drawn  up  a  new  one 
at  the  time  the  codicil  was  written.  I  expected 
to  find  that  you  and  your  cousin  shared  equally. 
I  told  Mr.  Darrell  so  the  night  he  arrived  here. 
I  am  bound  to  say  he  expressed  a  hope  that  I 
might  be  right ;  he  was  greatly  attached  to  you 
and  your  uncle — very  happy  that  your  innocence 
had  been  established.  But  when  the  will  was 
opened  I  found  the  change  hnd  not  been  made." 

"I  don't  care  for  the  money,"  cried  Launce. 
*'  At  least  he  knew  I  was  not  a  villain.  Good 
God !  how  could  it  have  come  about  ?  And  he's 
dead,  and  there  is  no  clew  ?" 

"  None,"  said  Mr.  Carstoe.  "  I  know  what  I 
have  told  you,  and  I  know  nothing  more." 


He  went  over  the  details  of  the  last  days- 
Milady's  two  visits  ;  Mr.Vaughan's  seizure  dur- 
ing his  conversation  with  her,  Carstoe  himself 
being  absent.  On  the  previous  night  Smith  the 
lawyer  had  been  at  the  house.  Mrs.  Simpson 
and  Anthony  Turner  had  witnessed  papers ;  but 
that  was  an  occurrence  too  frequent  to  be  im- 
portant. Mr.  Carstoe  only  mentioned  it  casually 
to  show  that  up  to  the  very  hour  of  the  paralytic 
stroke  Mr.Vaughan's  mind  remained  clear. 

"I  got  back  that  evening,"  he  went  on,  husk- 
ily. "  He  knew  me  once— tried  to  tell  me  some- 
thing." 

"But  you  could  not  understand?" 

"  No.  There  were  only  broken  words.  I 
caught,  '  My  boy — my  bov — set  right — time — 
I— 

Mr.  Carstoe's  voice  faltered.  Launce  remained 
silent.  After  a  while,  the  lawyer  continued — 

"  I  understood  when  we  opened  the  will.  He 
had  not  made  the  change  I  supposed  completed 
when  the  codicil  was  drawn  up.  That  was  what 
troubled  him.  But  even  if  I  had  understood,  it 
would  have  been  too  late  then — too  late,  poor 
man!" 

Mr.  Carstoe  paused,  spread  out  his  hands,  and 
turned  away. 

"  God  bless  you!"  cried  Launce,  wringing  his 
hand.  "You  have  given  me  great  comfort." 

Mr.  Carstoe  put  his  head  straight  on  his  shoul- 
ders, and  looked  into  the  fire,  more  wooden  than 
ever  of  aspect,  to  atone  for  his  late  weakness. 

"Your  cousin  arrived  the  next  day,"  he  con- 
tinued. "The  old  gentleman  never  knew  him, 
nor  any  body,  though  he  lingered  for  more  than 
a  week.  As  I  mentioned  to  you,  poor  Smith 
was  killed  only  the  day  of  Mr.Vaughan's  attack. 
It  was  a  week  to  be  remembered  in  Moysterville 
— two  citizens  so  prominent — " 

"Did  you  ever  see  that  woman  again?"  de- 
manded Launce,  ruthlessly  interrupting  this  bit 
of  eloquence. 

"Ah!  she  could  only  have  come  to  beg,  or 
worse  ;  probably  her  visit  was  a  blind." 

Then  Mr.  Carstoe  told  the  story  of  the  stolen 
jewels,  and  the  lucky  chance  by  which  Darrell 
Vaughan  had  discovered  her  guilt.  Launce  list- 
ened attentively  to  the  tale,  the  interest  and  ex- 
citement of  the  whole  conversation  since  his  ar- 
rival causing  him  to  forget  the  peculiar  physical 
sensations  which  had  troubled  him  for  days. 

"And  the  woman  saw  my  uncle  twice?"  he 
said  at  last. 

"Yes;  she  came  two  days  in  succession. 
After  her  first  visit,  Mr.  Vaughan  told  Mrs. 
Simpson  to  be  sure  and  admit  her  when  she  re- 
turned." 

"And  she  is  now  in  the  penitentiary?" 

"She  has  not  been  taken  there  yet;  she  is 
still  in  the  jail  here.  About  the  time  she  was 
to  be  sent,  a  great  fire  broke  out  in  the  women's 
ward  of  the  penitentiary.  The  damages  were 


MR.  VAUG 

so  great  that  they  had  none  too  much  room  for 
the  prisoners  already  there." 

"I  remember  now,"  Launce  replied;  "they 
mentioned  it  in  San  Francisco.  It  is  supposed 
that  it  was  set  on  fire — a  plot  for  the  escape  of 
the  convicts." 

"  Yes ;  and  several  did  get  away,  but  were  re- 
taken." 

"  So  the  woman  is  still  here  in  the  jail  ?" 
Launce  said,  after  a  few  moments'  thought. 
4 'Mr.  Carstoe,  I  shall  go  to  see  her." 

Carstoe  looked  surprised  and  puzzled. 

"You  don't  suppose  she  could  throw  any  light 
on  the  matter  which  troubles  you  ?  Mr.  Vaughan 
got  his  information  from  Sandford." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  expect  any  thing.  All 
the  same,  I  shall  go  to  see  Milady,  if  I  can  get 
the  permission." 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Carstoe  occupied  him- 
self in  procuring  the  necessary  permit — not  diffi- 
cult to  obtain,  since  it  is  he  who  asks  it  for  a 
nephew  of  the  late  Mr.  Vaughan. 

The  two  go  to  the  jail  together ;  Mr.  Carstoe 
even  accompanies  Launce  into  the  women's 
ward,  and  with  him  follows  the  keeper  down 
the  corridor  into  which  Milady's  cell  opens.  Mr. 
Carstoe  has  no  intention  of  sharing  the  inter- 
view— he  did  not  mean  to  come  so  far;  but 
somehow  a  painful,  irresistible  fascination  has 
led  him  on. 

The  doors  of  all  the  cells  have  a  square  win- 
dow secured  by  iron  gratings.  The  shutters  are 
open  at  this  hour ;  at  almost  every  loophole  some 
haggard  or  evil  face  peers  out  at  the  passers. 

"  There's  Milady  taking  a  peep  too,"  the  turn- 
key says  in  a  low  voice,  when  they  have  nearly 
reached  the  end  of  the  passage.  "It's  unusual 
for  her  to  stand  there." 

Both  gentlemen  see  her  distinctly.  Mr.  Car- 
stoe hesitates,  then  stops ;  at  the  same  instant 
Milady  disappears. 

"I'll  go  back  and  wait  in  the  matron's  parlor," 
Mr. Carstoe  says  to  Launce.  "I  didn't  mean  to 
ccme — I  wouldn't  have  seen  her  for  the  world." 

Launce  nods,  and  passes  on  with  the  keeper. 

"I've  brought  you  a  visitor,"  the  man  says, 
looking  through  the  bars.  ' '  I  hope  you-  will  be 
a  little  more  civil  to  Mr.  Cromlin  than  you  gen- 
erally are  to  people." 

He  unlocks  the  door,  stands  back  for  Launce 
to  enter,  and  closes  it  behind  him. 

Milady  is  seated  in  the  farthest  comer  of  the 
cell,  her  head  resting  on  her  hands.  She  still 
wears  the  rusty  black-silk  dress,  and  the  faded 
shawl  of  Indian  cashmere  is  gathered  over  her 
shoulders. 

Launce  stands  silent  for  a  few  seconds,  but  as 
she  neither  stirs  nor  looks  up,  he  says  gentlv — 

"I  want  to  talk  with  you  a  little,  if  you  will 
let  me." 

Milady  raises  her  head  quickly,  and  flashes 
her  stormy  eyes  upon  him. 


HAN 


'S  HEIR.  59 

Launce's  first  thought  is  that  an  insane  asylum 
would  be  the  proper  place  of  captivity  for  her — 
those  eyes  can  only  belong  to  a  mad  woman. 
Then,  artist  like,  he  is  struck  by  the  picturesque 
shadow  of  beauty  which  hangs  about  her  still — a 
mere  shadow,  which  some  way  in  connection  with 
that  wasted  face  is  more  appalling  than  any  ugli- 
ness could  have  been. 

"  What  did  he  call  you  ?''  she  asks  in  her  hol- 
low voice. 

"My  name  is  Cromlin,"  Launce  replies. 

She  is  half  out  of  her  seat.  He  has  the  same 
feeling  which  strikes  any  beholder  each  time  she 
moves — that  she  is  about  to  spring  at  him  like  a 
panther.  But  she  sinks  back  on  the  bench.  A 
strange  light,  which  for  an  instant  altered  the  ex- 
pression of  her  eyes,  dies  out.  Singular  changes 
pass  over  her  face,  but  Launce  can  not  interpret 
them.  They  are  like  a  wild  mingling  of  hope, 
resolve,  doubt,  and  then  a  quick,  insane  cunning 
and  suspicion. 

"Carstoe  was  with  him,"  she  mutters. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?"  Launce  asks,  still 
speaking  in  that  kindly  voice.  He  has  not  time 
to  reflect  that  such  is  the  case,  but  his  mind  is 
full  of  pity  and  sympathy  for  the  creature.  "I 
did  not  hear. " 

"I  said  you  must  catch  a  bird  before  you  can 
put  salt  on  its  tail,"  returns  Milady,  with  one  of 
her  dreadful  laughs.  Her  countenance  has  re- 
sumed its  usual  sullen,  defiant  look,  yet  there  is 
a  certain  eagerness  in  her  eyes,  and  she  watches 
him  narrowly. 

"When  you  first  came  to  Moystcrville,  you 
went  twice  to  see  old  Mr. Vaughan,"  says  Launce. 
"He  was  my  uncle." 

"'Oh,  my  prophetic  soul,'  dear  Hamlet!" 
sneers  Milady.  "Hadn't  you  better  send  for 
the  marines  if  you  want  to  spin  a  yarn  ?  I  say, 
Buffer,  a  drink  would  be  a  blessing." 

Yet  Launce  noticed  the  eagerness  in  her  eyes 
—  the  suspicion  in  her  face.  He  knows  they 
have  a  meaning ;  that  if  he  could  only  find  out 
the  significance  of  both  she  might  be  induced  to 
talk  earnestly. 

"I  think,"  Launce  says,  "that  you  put  a 
wrong  construction  on  my  visit  —  you  do  not 
really  believe  that  I  am  Mr.Vaughan's  nephew." 

She  starts  again  at  the  name,  but  once  more 
the  suspicion  masters  the  eagerness  in  her  eyes. 
As  if  it  were  a  reminder  to  herself  to  keep  im- 
passible, untouched,  she  mutters  anew — 

" Carstoe  was  with  him!" 

Launce  would  give  much  to  catch  the  words. 
It  seems  to  him  that  if  he  could  do  so  he  should 
have  the  clew  he  wants  whereby  to  interest  the 
woman  and  give  her  faith  in  him.  But  he 
strains  his  ears  vainly ;  only  a  hoarse  murmur 
is  audible. 

"  I  am  sure  my  uncle  was  kind  to  you,"  Lannce 
goes  on,  not  studying  his  speech,  trusting  to  his 
intuitions  to  say  what  will  be  most  likely  to  in- 


CO 


ME.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIE. 


fluence  her.  "I  loved  him  very  dearly;  we 
were  separated  for  years ;  he  thought  ill  of  me 
—believed  that  I  had  committed  a  great  crime." 
Does  Milady  give  a  gasping  breath — almost  a 
groan  ?  He  can  not  be  sure.  He  had  turned 
away  his  eyes  for  an  instant,  and  when  he  looks 
up  at  the  sound,  she  is  leaning  back,  her  face  as 
blank  as  the  wall  behind  her. 

He  goes  steadily  on  in  his  explanation. 

"Before  his  death  lie  sent  for  me.  He  had 
discovered  that  I  was  innocent,  but  there  is  noth- 
ing among  his  papers  to  tell  me  how.  I  thought 
if  you  knew  the  least  thing,  if  it  were  about  that 
you  went  to  him,  you  would  be  kind  and  generous 
enough  to  tell  me.  It  could  do  you  no  hurt,  and 
would  take  a  great  weight  off  my  mind." 

Under  the  cover  of  her  shawl  Milady  twists 
her  hands  hard  together.  She  will  not  look  at 
him ;  she  bows  her  head  ;  she  fights  against  her 
willingness  to  believe,  and  fortifies  herself  anew 
by  that  whisper.  In  his  earnestness,  too,  Launce 
has  overdone  his  work.  She  can  not  fancy  any 
human  creature  speaking  softly  to  her,  unless 
from  a  desire  to  cheat  and  deceive.  He  waits, 
encouraged  by  her  silence  to  hope  that  he  has 
found  the  way  to  her  confidence.  But  she  is 
quiet  so  long  that  he  adds — 

"If  you  would  tell  me!  Perhaps  never  in 
your  whole  life  will  you  have  an  opportunity  to 
do  any  person  so  great  a  favor.  I  think  you 
would  always  be  glad  of  having  done  it." 

"  He  reels  it  off  well,"  exclaims  Milady.  "  I 
say,  you're  a  preacher,  and  you  must  be  worse 
than  the  most  of  'em,  because  you're  so  much 
more  glib." 

"  I  have  told  you  who  I  am,"  replies  Launce. 
"  The  keeper  mentioned  my  name.  "Why  Mr. 
Carstoe  is  here,  and  could  tell  you." 

"  No ;  he's  only  a  fool,  after  all,"  mutters 
Milady.  "Why,  you  can't  be  a  preacher — it's 
too  bad.  I  was  just  going  to  swear  at  you.  It 
wouldn't  be  half  the  fun  if  you're  not  a  parson." 

But  Launce  will  not  yet  relinquish  his  pur- 
pose. He  feels  that  he  has  committed  an  error 
in  mentioning  Mr.  Carstoe,  so  he  tries  to  set  it 
right. 

"You  think  he  is  your  enemy.  Why  Mr. 
Carstoe  pities  you  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart. 
He  would  be  the  first  to  head  a  petition  for  par- 
don if  you  would  even  now  give  information  that 
could  put  justice  on  the  track  of  those  bad  men 
who  led  you  on.  He  would  do  it  even  if  he 
never  recovered  the  jewels." 

"  Ah,"  says  Milady, "  we've  got  to  that !  It's 
the  way  lie  interests  Carstoc  in  keeping  up  the 
game.  Sail  ahead,  young  man  !" 

"  He— whom  do  you  mean?"  asks  Launce. 

"Your  friend  the  Devil,"  retorts  Milady. 
"  Handsome  Devil  isn't  he — oh,  we  women  !" 

Km-!i  word  has  its  meaning,  Launce  feels  sure, 
aimless  and  coarse  as  her  answers  sound,  if  he 
could  only  catch  the  right  clew. 


"You  were  with  my  uncle  when  that  attack 
came  on,"  pursues  he.  That  first  appeal  had 
seemed  to  affect  her — he  will  follow  it  up.  "I 
can  not  help  believing  you  had  some  strong  mo- 
tive for  those  visits ;  at  least  tell  me  if  they  in 
any  way  bear  upon  this  mystery  which  has  dark- 
ened my  life  for  years." 

" Ten  years,"  mutters  Milady ;  "he  said  so ! 
And  after  that,  ten  years !  Didn't  you  hear  the 
judge  repeat  it?  He'd  been  taught  his  lesson 


A  sense  of  discouragement  comes  over  Launce. 
The  pain  and  lassitude  of  the  last  few  days  make 
themselves  felt  again,  and  it  is  an  effort  to  con- 
centrate his  thoughts. 

"You'll  not  help  me?"  he  says,  wearily. 

"  How  much  was  your  share  to  be  ?"  asks  Mi- 
lady, with  that  look  of  half -insane  cunning. 
"  Are  you  to  be  paid  any  way?  I  thought  that 
Devil  was  satisfied,  now  he  has  me  safe.  '  Ten 
years,  and  then  again  ten!'"  Her  voice  be- 
comes a  groan,  but  she  quickly  bursts  into  a 
laugh,  and  adds,  in  her  hardest,  most  defiant 
fashion,  "111  go  you  a  pile  of  Mexican  dollars 
against  a  cent  that  I  live  through  and  come  out. 
I  will  live — I  will!"  she  fairly  shrieks,  shaking 
her  clenched  fists.  "Live  and  come  out — Devil ! 
Devil!" 

"Think — just  by  giving  these  men  up  to  jus- 
tice you  could  be  free  very  soon,"  urges  Launce. 
"They  could  not  harm  you;  you  would  have 
friends — be  kept  safe — " 

"  'Come  into  my  parlor,  said  the  spider  to  the 
fly,'"  sang  Milady  in  a  hoarse  contralto,  laugh- 
ing still,  always  that  crazy  cunning  in  her  eyes. 

"If  I  could  only  tell  what  it  is  you  suspect — 
whom  you  fear,"  says  Launce,  his  tired  faculties 
growing  confused  under  this  feeling  that  her 
reticence  concealed  a  mystery. 

"Devil!  handscme  Devil!"  croaks  Milady. 

"Let  the  rest  go,"  says  Launce;  "at  least 
you  would  cheat  the  Devil  a  little  by  this  favor  I 
ask.  Only  tell  me  if  your  visit  to  my  uncle 
threw  any  light  on  the  crime  he  suspected  me 
of." 

"Do  the  dead  ever  get  out  of  their  graves?" 
whispers  Milady.  "I  thought  I  saw  Jem  last 
night."  But  in  an  instant  she  is  laughing,  and 
screams  out,  "  Lord,  if  Jem  could  come  back, 
what  a  kettle  of  fish !  But  he's  safe  six  foot  un- 
der ground,  and  I'm  as  good  as  buried — Devil ! 
Devil !" 

She  is  becoming  greatly  excited.  The  keeper 
has  warned  Launce  that  she  is  subject  to  moods 
so  like  insanity  that  he  believes  she  will  end  soon 
a  hopeless  maniac.  Cromlin  is  himself  growing 
more  conscious  of  fatigue  and  weakness  each 
moment,  now  that  he  has  lost  the  hope  which 
brought  him  here.  But  a  new  thought  strikes 
him — he  will  try  one  further  plea. 

"If  you  will  not  help  me,  or  even  tell  me 
whether  it  is  in  your  power,"  he  says,  "I  will 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


61 


not  be  so  hard  and  unkind  as  you  are.  They 
tell  me  you  have  a  child  ;  let  me  know  where  it 
is  and  I  will  find  it,  and  send  you  word  of  its 
welfare." 

Milady  is  out  of  her  seat ;  she  has  sprung  at 
him  lithe  and  dangerous  as  a  panther.  He  has 
only  time  to  avoid  her  clutching  hands  by  a 
quick  movement.  She  totters  against  the  wall, 
weak,  half-fainting,  her  features  convulsed,  her 
eyes  like  nothing  human ;  but  he  hears  broken 
words  as  she  gnashes  her  teeth  till  the  blood- 
specked  foam  flies  from  her  lips. 

'•'•That  was  it  —  Devil!  Devil! — to  get  the 
child — a  hold  if  I  came  out — the  child!" 

Then  with  a  shriek  she  falls  prostrate  upon 
the  floor,  writhing  in  awful  spasms. 

The  turnkey  comes,  the  matron  and  doctor 
are  sent  for.  Launce  is  obliged  to  go  away. 
He  joins  Mr.  Carstoe,  and  they  wait  until  news 
is  brought  that  Milady  is  better,  though  still 
wandering  in  her  mind. 

Launce  Cromlin  has  had  no  intention  of  mak- 
ing any  stay  in  California.  This  night  he  goes 
to  bed  early,  so  oppressed  by  distracting  thoughts 
that  conversation  or  connected  meditation  is  an 
impossibility. 

He  sleeps  brokenly,  and  lives  through  dismal 
experiences  in  his  slumber.  Sometimes  Darrell 
is  trying  to  drag  him  over  a.  precipice.  Some- 
times Elizabeth  Crauford  is  on  trial  for  the  theft 
of  the  jewels,  and  he  endeavoring  to  save  her ; 
while  his  uncle  stands  by  in  his  shroud,  making 
signs  that  he  wishes  to  speak  words  he  is  power- 
less to  utter,  and  Elizabeth's  face  changes  to 
that  of  Milady,  and  Darrell  is  laughing  hideously 
at  both. 

Then  he  wakes,  sleeps  again,  and  a  worse  con- 
fusion follows.  Now  he  is  imprisoned  among 
red-hot  iron  bars,  now  freezing  to  death  in  a 
snow-pass  of  the  Sierras — always  seeing  Darrell 
and  scores  of  other  familiar  countenances,  and 
hearing  his  uncle's  voice. 

The  morning  comes,  and  when  Mr.  Carstoe 
ventures  to  call  his  dilatory  guest  to  breakfast, 
he  finds  him  raving  in  the  delirium  of  the  terri- 
ble Chagres  fever,  and  the  next  three  months 
are  little  better  than  a  blank  to  Launce  Cromlin. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

OUTWITTED. 

GOOD,  prim,  ceremonious  Monsieur  La  Tour ! 
It  was  fortunate  that  he  entertained  the  strictest 
and  most  ancient  ideas  in  regard  to  the  panoply 
of  reserve  and  timidity  in  which  demoiselles 
ought  to  be  wrapped,  otherwise  the  reception  he 
got  from  Nathalie  must  have  struck  an  ominous 
chill  to  his  heart.  But  his  notion  of  the  greeting 
proper  under  the  circumstances  was  to  bow  low 
over  her  hand,  to  imprint  a  decorous  kiss  there- 


on, to  offer  a  long-winded  compliment  on  her 
appearance,  and  express  his  overwhelming  de- 
light at  seeing  her  in  elegantly  correct  French, 
which  sounded  like  a  jumble  of  quotations  from 
Boileau  and  Telemachus. 

Madame  L'Estrange  leaned  back  among  her 
pillows  and  watched  the  scene,  with  her  haggard 
features  and  eager  eyes  softened  into  content- 
ment. The  scene  was  so  precise,  so  proper,  so 
dull,  that  she  liked  it ;  her  one  desire  for  Natha- 
lie's future  was  quiet  and  respectability.  Su- 
sanne  stood  behind  Madame's  sofa,  ostensibly  ar- 
ranging her  cushions,  in  reality  watching  Natha- 
lie, with  an  odd  expression,  which  might  have  dis- 
turbed the  girl  had  she  noticed  it.  But  Natha- 
lie was  too  busy  with  the  rush  of  rebellious 
thoughts  which  oppressed  her  to  observe  Su- 
sanne.  She  did  perceive  that  Monsieur  had 
bought  a  new  wig  in  honor  of  his  return,  and 
she  longed  to  knock  it  off"  and  step  on  it.  She 
had  hurried  into  the  house  with  some  mad  idea 
of  crying  out  at  once  that  she  would  never  mar- 
ry him — never ;  of  defying  her  mother,  and  dar- 
ing the  full  brunt  of  her  wrath.  But  once  in  the 
room,  her  courage  failed.  The  light  clasp  of 
Monsieur's  fingers  seemed  a  hold  that  she  could 
not  break.  If,  indeed,  any  wild  words  she 
might  utter  were  to  free  her  from  him,  she  knew 
that  confinement  or  a  convent  would  be  her  por- 
tion. Excitable  as  she  was,  her  natural  artful- 
ness came  to  her  aid  and  restored  her  reason. 
Her  one  hope  lay  in  cajoling  and  wheedling  both 
mother  and  betrothed  —  gaining  time— if  she 
could  only  do  that ! 

Susanne,  watching  her  always,  saw  the  sudden 
change  in  her  face.  Nathalie  grew  smiling, 
talked  gayly,  said  courteous  things,  indulged 
even  in  fun,  in  raillery  which  would  have  called 
down  disapproval  from  her  mother  had  not 
Monsieur  appeared  in  a  state  of  high  delight 
with  her  conversation.  Susanne  gave  a  long  sniff 
of  suspicion. 

"  She  means  mischief,"  thought  that  shrewd 
personage.  "Eh,  well,  it  is  lucky  that  I  have 
eyes  in  my  head.  Once  married,  Monsieur 
must  look  after  her  himself,  and  I  do  not  envy 
him  his  task ;  but  until  then — no,  no,  Mademoi- 
selle !  You  are  very  crafty,  but  you  are  no 
match  for  Susanne  yet,  and  I  shall  see  that  you 
do  not  go  straight  to  the  devil,  as  you  are  in- 
clined." 

Monsieur  displayed  the  presents  he  had 
brought.  It  would  have  been  impossible  for 
Nathalie  not  to  derive  satisfaction  from  the  sight 
of  ornaments,  even  at  her  last  gasp.  She  tried 
on  the  bracelet  and  necklace,  and  fluttered  the 
pretty  fan,  and  was  happy  for  five  minutes. 
Then  she  remembered  Vaughan,  and  longed  to 
dash  the  baubles  on  the  floor,  and  give  way  to 
her  rebellious  impulses,  but  had  sense  to  per- 
ceive that  by  so  doing  she  would  ruin  her  one 
faint  hope  of  escape.  The  hope  was  wild,  mad, 


C2 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


and  she  knew  it,  but  she  clung  thereto  notwith- 
standing. 

Monsieur  remained  all  the  afternoon  and  even- 
ing. Nathalie  found  no  opportunity  to  slip  out 
of  the  house,  though  she  was  half  crazy  from  her 
belief  that  Vaughan  would  return,  and  be  linger- 
ing somewhere  near  toward  sunset.  At  that 
very  hour  she  was  obliged  to  walk  with  Monsieur 
on  the  lawn — Madame  actually  permitted  it — 
obliged  to  sit  with  him  under  the  poplar-tree 
and  listen  to  his  talk,  which  grew  more  lover- 
like  than  ever  before. 

If  she  could  tell  him — he  seemed  kind-hearted 
— but  tell  him  what  ?  That  she  could  not  mar- 
ry him  because  she  loved  a  stranger,  a  man 
whom  she  had  only  seen  a  few  times  in  all? 
Nathalie  could  not  do  'this ;  the  utter  insanity 
of  such  an  avowal  struck  even  her.  No,  she 
must  wait.  If  she  could  only  see  Vaughan! 
He  loved  her — surely  he  loved  her !  Now  that 
the  time  was  shortening  so  terribly — Monsieur 
returned — Vaughan  would  break  through  all  or- 
dinary rules,  and  find  means  to  save  her. 

While  Nathalie  tried  to  listen  to  Monsieur's 
conversation,  and  to  quiet  herself  with  the  be- 
lief that  she  should  yet  escape  her  bonds,  Su- 
sanne  was  warning  her  mistress. 

"He!"  cried  that  astute  individual,  with  ab- 
rupt disregard  of  Madame's  shattered  nerves. 
"We  have  held  together  many  years,  and  I  am 
not  going  to  desert  Madame  now.  I  may  have 
my  faults — time  enough  for  perfection  when  one 
gets  to  heaven— but  I  shall  not  do  that." 

"What  are  you  talking  about, Susanne ?"  de- 
manded the  sick  woman,  irritably. 

"Use  your  eyes,  Madame — use  your  eyes!" 
cried  Susanne,  shaking  herself  up  and  down  with 
great  energy. 

"  What  does  the  creature  mean  ?"  asked  Ma- 
dame more  peevishly,  yet  in  a  good  deal  of  trep- 
idation. 

"Do  you  want  a  wedding — do  you  want  to 
be  sure  she  is  safe  out  of  harm's  way  ?"  contin- 
ued Susanne.  "Do  you  trust  that  quiet  and 
submission,  and  you  knowing  women  ?" 

"Man  Dieu .'  what  is  it?  Tell  me,  Susanne ; 
you  will  make  me  ill— you  will  upset  my  night." 

"That  is  just  what  must  not  happen;  you 
must  keep  all  your  wits  about  you,  and  be  able 
to  act,"  returned  Susanne.  "  Look  here.  I  en- 
gage to  watch  her  for  three  days  and  nights ;  if 
she.  is  not  married  then,  I  wasli  my  hands  of  the 
consequences." 

"Mon  Dieu!  mon  Lieu!"  moaned  Madame. 
"What  is  it — what  has  happened?" 

' '  Nothing  yet ;  but  marry  her  at  once,  or  she 
will  refuse.  I  saw  it  in  her  face  to-day.  The 
devil  is  in  it  that  Madame  can  not  understand !" 
cried  Susanne,  fiercely,  as  poor  Madame  shook 
and  gasped  and  stared  at  her  in  nervous  dread. 
"This  is  it,  then!  That  young  American  has 
been  hanging  about.  She  has  met  him  twice. 


I  got  it  out  of  that  old  idiot  of  a  Rosine.  I  saw 
him  plainly  enough  when  I  went  to  call  her,  but 
I  made  no  sign." 

It  required  immense  self-control  on  the  part 
of  Madame  to  restrain  the  hysterics  and  spasms, 
which  would  have  left  her  powerless.  For  a 
few  seconds  she  wrung  her  hands  and  uttered  a 
jumble  of  prayers  and  imprecations.  Susanne 
delivered  a  brief  lecture  on  the  propriety  of  show- 
ing common-sense  in  a  case  like  this. 

"If  you  lose  any  time  you  will  lose  her,"  said 
Susanne.  "Swallow  your  medicine  quick,  and 
be  strong." 

The  cold  drops  of  perspiration  stood  on  Ma- 
dame's  forehead ;  her  teeth  chattered  as  if  they 
would  break  the  wine-glass  Susanne  held  to  her 
lips ;  but  something  of  the  old,  resolute  will  was 
yet  left  in  the  enfeebled  frame,  and  she  would 
not  give  way.  It  required  very  slight  explana- 
tion to  make  her  understand  the  case  thorough- 
ly. Feminine  weaknesses  or  insanities  could  nev- 
er take  Madame  much  by  surprise,  after  her 
varied  experience  of  life. 

"  There  is  no  harm  done,"  said  Susanne.  "  It 
struck  me  Mademoiselle  had  grown  very  fond 
of  her  promenader,  and  yesterday  it  all  came 
over  me  in  a  flash — I  can  not  tell  how,  but  it 
did !  That  old  Rosine  had  an  important  air,  and 
Mademoiselle  was  odd.  Eh,  well,  it  is  no  mat- 
ter— I  saw  him!" 

"I  can  not  think  easily,  I  am  so  dull  now," 
moaned  Madame. 

"The  marriage  must  take  place  at  once,  of 
course.  Monsieur  will  want  it.  Every  thing  was 
ready,  even  to  the  license,  before  he  went  away. 
Does  not  Madame  see  ?" 

' '  Ah,  yes !  I  shall  tell  him  I  am  worse ;  there 
must  be  no  delay.  Oh,  that  wretched  girl !" 
cried  Madame,  with  sudden  anger  in  her  voice. 

"Bah!  one  is  not  a  woman  for  nothing,"  re- 
turned Susanne.  "Take  good  care,  Madame  ; 
be  very  sweet  to  her — give  her  no  chance  to  re- 
bel ;  there  is  no  telling  what  she  might  do.  Come 
now ;  you  are  better — you  can  manage  ?" 

"Yes;  but,  Holy  Virgin,  I  shall  die  after — I 
know  I  shall ;  this  agitation  will  be  too  much  for 
me." 

"And  so  you  ought,"  was  Susanne's  mental 
comment ;  but  she  spoke  some  comforting  words, 
and  was  altogether  very  helpful  and  amiable. 
Indeed,  Susanne  quite  enjoyed  the  excitement 
and  the  plotting,  after  the  decorous  dullness  into 
which  their  lives  had  so  long  ago  slipped  wiih- 
out  break  or  variety.  ' '  Let  Madame  trust  me  ; 
all  she  need  do  is  to  give  Monsieur  a  hint  that 
he  may  have  his  wife  any  day — he  will  be  eager 
enough — I  shall  manage  the  rest !  I  am  equal 
to  the  occasion — yes,  indeed  !  I  know  my  own 
talents,  the  saints  be  praised,  and  I  am  not  wick- 
ed enough  to  undervalue  them." 

"Susanne,  if  you  never  lose  sight  of  her — if 
we  succeed — I  will  not  wait  for  what  I  have  put 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


C3 


you  down  in  my  will.  I  shall  give  you  five  hun- 
dred francs  the  morning  of  the  marriage,"  said 
Madame,  catching  her  attendant's  hand  between 
her  bony  fingers. 

"That  is  only  fair!  I  am  proud  in  the  right 
way,  thank  God,  and  am  willing  always  to  ac- 
cept my  due,"  said  Susanne.  "Let  Madame  be 
perfectly  tranquil ;  I  have  a  scheme.  Ta,  ta ! 
how  quick  one's  invention  is  at  times.  Hark! 
they  are  coming  back.  Do  not  lose  a  moment 
in  speaking  to  Monsieur." 

Madame  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  as  the  be- 
trothed pair  entered,  and  gazed  anxiously  at  her 
daughter.  She  could  read  the  impatience — all 
the  varied  feelings  which  showed  in  the  girl's 
face  under  its  assumed  calmness.  That  very  ef- 
fort at  composure  frightened  Madame  more  than 
ever ;  it  was  unlike  Nathalie ;  she  must  mean 
mischief  indeed. 

"Dear  child,"  said  Madame,  "go  with  Su- 
sanne for  a  little  ;  I  have  to  talk  with  our  good 
friend  here." 

Nathalie  hurried  along  the  gallery  to  her  sa- 
lon, and  made  for  the  outer  door.  It  was  scarce- 
ly yet  twilight ;  she  might  still  find  Vaughan. 
But  on  the  threshold  she  met  Susanne,  and  Su- 
sanne said  in  a  tone  of  cheerful  interest — 

"  I  just  saw  that  handsome  American  go  past. 
He  was  walking  ;  but  a  carriage  stopped,  and 
he  drove  off  in  it  with  the  two  gentlemen." 

Nath.ilie  would  have  liked  to  scream — to  go 
into  a  fury — any  thing  as  a  vent  to  her  disap- 
pointment. But,  after  all,  Susanne  was  not  to 
blame.  She  turned  back  into  her  salon,  and  sat 
down  among  the  shadows  until  she  was  again 
summoned  into  the  presence  of  her  mother  and 
future  husband. 

Monsieur  spent  the  evening — the  evening  which 
Nathalie  thought  would  never  end.  There  was 
a  change  in  Monsieur's  manner :  somethin 
even  more  tender  and  gallant  than  usual,  but 
which  betrayed  a  certain  air  of  proprietorship. 
He  was  in  wonderful  spirits,  too ;  he  reminded 
Nathalie  again  of  an  elderly  sheep  trying  to  frisk 
himself  into  the  belief  that  he  was  a  lamb.  The 
carriage  came  for  him  at  last ;  he  had  made  his 
adieu  to  Madame.  As  he  approached  Nathalie, 
she  shrunk  back  from  the  smile  that  rendered 
his  face  eager,  kind  and  gentle  as  the  smile  was. 
He  did  not  content  himself  with  kissing  her 
hands — he  leaned  forward  and  pressed  his  lips 
npon  her  forehead. 

"I  have  Madame's  pel-mission?"  he  asked, 
laughing. 

"I  shall  so  soon  lose  all  claim  to  direct,"  re- 
turned Madame,  laughing  too,  "that  I  may  as 
well  resign  my  authority  at  once." 

Nathalie  smothered  a  little  cry  of  fear  and  dis- 
gust. A  few  more  pleasant  words  passed  be- 
tween her  mother  and  Monsieur,  then  he  left  the 
room. 

"I  shall  go  to  bed,"  said  Madame.     "My 


dear,  on  the  day  after  to-morrow  we  must  part 
for  a  time ;  you  will  be  Madame  La  Tour." 

"So  soon?  No — I  can  not — I  will  not!" 
gasped  Nathalie. 

"So  soon?  Odd  words  to  apply  to  a  mar- 
riage that  has  already  been  delayed  five  whole 
weeks  beyond  the  original  time,"  said  Madame 
in  an  icy  voice.  "Can  not — will  not  ?  Stran- 
ger words  still  from  a  daughter  to  her  mother, 
especially  when  she  speaks  of  marrying  a  man  to 
whom  she  has  been  betrothed  for  months." 

Madame's  stony  calmness  rendered  Nathalie 
more  hopeless. 

"  He  came  back  so  suddenly — I  can  not — oh ! 
he  might  give  me  a  week,"  faltered  the  girl. 

"  Mademoiselle  is  dramatic,"  sneered  Madame, 
preserving  her  composure  by  a  powerful  effort, 
conscious  that  it  was  her  greatest  stronghold. 
"  I  am  willing,  if  it  amuses  you  !  One  thing  is 
certain  :  of  course,  at  this  late  day,  you  contem- 
plate no  real  opposition  ?  You  accepted  Mon- 
sieur La  Tour ;  you  wished  to  marry  him  ;  you 
will  do  so  on  Thursday." 

"  I  did  not  know — I  was  a  child — I — " 

"  Pray  do  not  force  me  to  go  further,  and  say 
that  you  are  an  idiot,"  interrupted  Madame. 
"Bah !  what  is  this ?  I  am  told  that  American 
girls  do  such  disgraceful  things — break  off  their 
engagements  at  the  last  moment.  You  have  a 
mother  who  does  not  understand  such  savage 
customs.  Silence ! — go  to  bed !  I  know  you  are 
not  in  earnest ;  you  just  want  a  little  romance, 
but  it  is  not  proper ;  besides,  I  am  too  feeble  and 
ill  to  enjoy  it  with  you." 

"My  mother ! — oh,  my  mother !"  cried  Natha- 
lie. 

She  thought  she  could  make  an  eloquent 
speech,  hut  no  words  came.  The  rigid  laws 
which  surround  an  unmarried  woman  in  France 
were  full  in  her  mind.  The  utter  futility  of  soft- 
ening or  changing  her  mother  struck  her  too. 
The  recklessness  that  stood  her  in  place  of  force 
of  character  was  gone  for  the  time ;  her  temper 
gave  no  aid.  Frightened  and  miserable,  she 
burst  into  passionate  tears. 

"Good!"  thought  Susanne,  watching  the  in- 
terview from  behind  the  dining-room  door.  ' '  \Ve 
shall  not  have  much  trouble,  after  all." 

She  began  to  carol  a  pleasant  ditty,  as  if  she 
had  just  entered,  and  wished  to  announce  her 
approach. 

"Is  Madame  ready  for  me ?"  she  called,  in  her 
most  respectful  voice. 

"Yes;  come  in,  Susanne,"  replied  her  mis- 
tress. 

"  Wait,"  pleaded  Nathalie ;  "let  me  speak — 
let  me  tell  you !  Susanne,  go  away  for  a  while." 

"What  did  Mademoiselle  say?"  asked  Su- 
sanne, entering.  "  Yes,  she  is  quite  right ;  Ma- 
dame ought  to  be  in  bed.  Ah,  Mademoiselle  is 
always  thoughtful,  and  we  are  to  lose  her  so 
soon — so  soon!" 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


"You  dreadful  old  woman — you  wicked  old 
woman!"  sobbed  Nathalie. 

It  was  not  in  the  least  as  she  would  have  ex- 
pected to  behave,  but  she  felt  so  powerless — such 
a  child. 

"Joseph,  Marie,  and  Saint  Genevieve!"  ejac- 
ulated Susanne  in  a  shrill  staccato.  "Eh,  eh, 
what  we  all  need  is  sleep !  Mademoiselle  is  nerv- 
ous— she  shall  have  some  of  Madame's  drops. " 

"  Mademoiselle  is  inclined  to  prefer  a  convent 
to  marriage,  but  I  fancy  the  night  will  bring 
wisdom,"  observed  Madame  in  her  icy  voice. 

"Ta,  ta!  girls  always  feel  like  that  when  the 
wedding-day  gets  so  near.  It  is  nothing — a 
mere  nothing,"  pronounced  Susanne,  cheerfully. 
"She  does  not  really  mind,  we  do  not  mind; 
and  Monsieur  knows  that  tears  are  quite  en  reyle, 
so  he  will  not  mind." 

'  "Susanne,  I  would  like  to  murder  you!"  ex- 
claimed Nathalie. 

"Dear  heart,  only  listen!"  returned  Susanne, 
affecting  still  to  consider  the  whole  matter  a  joke. 
"  But  we  must  not  play  any  longer.  Madame 
needs  to  go  to  bed ;  she  will  be  ill  otherwise." 

"I  am  ill! — I  suffer! — oh,  oh!"  It  struck 
Madame  that  she  might  as  well  now  yield  to  her 
real  agitation.  If  Nathalie  received  a  thorough 
fright,  that  would  finish  the  work  her  mother's 
firmness  had  begun. 

Usually  the  girl  was  ordered  away  when  these 
attacks  came  on ;  but  she  was  detained  to-night, 
made  to  help,  and  Susanne  pretended  to  be  hor- 
ribly alarmed,  though  in  reality  the  seizure  was 
nothing  compared  to  many  she  had  witnessed. 

Not  a  word  of  upbraiding  did  Madame  utter. 
When  she  could  speak  again,  she  fixed  her  great 
eyes  on  Nathalie,  and  said  faintly — 

"  It  is  possible  there  may  be  no  wedding  after 
all  on  Thursday ;  there  may  be  a  funeral  though." 
Nathalie  was  sent  off  to  her  room,  and  her 
terror  was  so  great  that  she  thought  less  of  her 
own  misery  than  her  mother's  words,  and  no 
mode  of  escape  would  suggest  itself  to  her  weary 
brain. 

The  next  morning  Nathalie  found  Madame 
sweet  and  amiable ;  anxious  for  her  society  too, 
but  showing  symptoms  of  spasms  if  Nathalie  so 
much  as  moved  quickly. 

Susanne  faithfully  fulfilled  her  promise  of 
watching.  Rosine  came  np-stairs  on  some  pre- 
tense, and  managed  to  convey  a  letter  to  Natha- 
lie. This  Susanne  could  not  prevent,  so  she 
appeared  blind.  A  little  later,  Nathalie  went 
out  on  the  gallery.  She  dropped  a  folded  paper, 
apparently  by  accident.  Rosine  was  picking  up 
twigs  and  sticks  about  the  lawn,  conveniently 
placed  to  seize  the  note.  As  she  entered  the 
passage  on  the  ground-floor  where  the  fermiei 
lived,  Susanne  loomed  before  her. 

"  -Mademoiselle  desired  me  to  take  the  billet,' 
she  said ;  "  it. was  not  for  you  to  pick  it  up." 
Rosine  demurred. 


"Give me  that  note,  or  I  will  break  every  bone 
n  thy  accursed  body  and  suck  thy  black  blood ! 
— dolt !  fish !  cabbage !"  cried  Susanne,  so  fierce 
of  aspect  that  Rosine  yielded  the  prize  without 
a  struggle.  ' '  You  to  be  trusted  with  such  deli- 
ate  matters — set  you  up,  indeed !  You  are  to 
go  by  train  to  Lausanne,  and  see  if  that  vile  em- 
aroidery-woman  has  finished  the  work  we  gave 
her.  Be  off  at  once,  laziest  and  ugliest !  Fly 
to  catch  the  train ;  here  is  money.  Make  any 
blunder,  and  I  will  eat  you  without  salt  at  pre- 
cisely seven  o'clock  to-night,  tough  and  black  as 
you  are,  vile  Swiss !" 

And  Susanne  snapped  her  teeth  together  with 
a  noise  which  froze  Rosine's  blood. 

So  the  old  woman  was  disposed  of  for  the  day. 

Monsieur  appeared :  Monsieur,  in  a  state  cf 
gallantry  and  pleasant  agitation,  full  of  old-fash- 
ioned compliments  for  Nathalie,  which  nearly 
drove  her  out  of  her  senses.  But  Madame  had 
prepared  him  to  find  her  odd,  capricious,  in  tears 
perhaps. 

" It  is  always  the  way,"  she  said ;  "girls  in- 
variably get  frightened  when  the  time  comes. 
Ten  to  one,  she  will  beg  for  a  few  days  or  say 
she  hates  you.  It  is  nothing,  trust  me ;  I  know 
my  sex ;  a  mere  affair  of  nerves,  no  more." 

Monsieur,  in  his  goodness,  was  prepared  to  be 
patient  and  considerate  to  any  extent,  but  Na- 
thalie did  not  alarm  him  by  tears  or  other  pas- 
sionate outbreak.  Indeed,  she  was  upheld  by  a 
vague  hope — of  what  she  did  not  think  at  all 
clearly.  Vaughan  had  written  and  begged  her 
to  meet  him.  What  she  expected  she  could  not 
have  told ;  certainly  even  in  her  romance  not 
that  he  should  ask  her  to  fly  with  him,  and  that 
she  should  consent  to  go.  She  had  sufficient 
practical  sense  in  spite  of  the  extravagance  of 
her  ideas  to  remember  he  was  a  stranger,  well  as 
it  seemed  to  her  that  she  knew  him. 

Susanne  left  the  house  on  a  little  affair  of  her 
own,  leaving  Nathalie  safe  for  the  time  between 
her  mother  and  Monsieur.  Susanne  strayed 
about  until  she  met  Darrell  Vaughan.  She  in- 
formed the  American  that  she  came  from  Natha- 
lie ;  the  young  lady  had  not  been  able  to  write. 
She  begged  him  to  be  very  careful  —  not  to 
come  near  the  house,  nor  even  send  her  a  note, 
for  a  day  or  two.  Susanne  promised  to  meet 
him  for  a  moment  on  the  following  day,  and  was 
profuse  in  her  wishes  to  serve  them  both.  She 
never  pocketed  money  with  more  satisfaction  in 
her  life  than  she  felt  in  storing  away  the  gold 
piece  Vaughan  put  in  her  hand.  Having  to  plot 
and  plan,  lie  and  cheat  the  two  young  people, 
made  Susanne  feel  at  least  ten  years  younger. 
Be  it  said  for  her,  too,  that  she  was  fond  of  both 
Madame  and  Nathalie  in  her  way,  and  had  no 
mind  to  see  the  girl  ruin  her  future  by  any  act 
of  mad  folly,  and  Susanne's  ideas  of  the  lengths 
to  which  her  sex  would  go  under  sufficient  in- 
ducement or  provocation  were  wide  indeed. 


ME.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


The  next  day  Nathalie  found  no  opportunity 
even  to  speak  with  Kosine ;  wherever  she  moved, 
Susanne  was  beside  her,  amiable,  and  in  her 
most  conversational  mood.  She  tried  to  vex  the 
woman  ;  Susanne  was  not  to  be  irritated.  She 
had  suddenly  developed  a  patience  that  was  lit- 
tle short  of  angelic.  Nathalie  was  completely 
hemmed  in  —  powerless.  She  broke  down  at 
last,  enraged  her  mother,  and  alarmed  Monsieur 
by  an  hysterical  outburst.  Susanne  pounced 
upon  her  immediately ;  this  was  what  she  had 
been  waiting  for.  She  put  her  to  bed,  dosed  her 
with  tisanes  that  had  several  drops  of  Madame's 
morphine  mingled  with  their  nastiness. 

"Ah,"  thought  Susanne,  quite  touched  by  her 
own  talent  and  virtue,  ' '  I  shall  never  get  a  fit- 
ting reward  in  this  world  for  all  my  sacrifices ; 
but  they  ought  to  count  in  the  next." 

Susanne  thought  of  several  little  sins  she  could 
commit  on  the  strength  of  these  present  efforts 
for  good,  which  she  regarded  as  a  sort  of  absolu- 
tion taken  out  in  advance.  She  saw  Vaughan 
again,  and  set  a  time  for  him  to  come  to  the 
house — Thursday,  at  two  o'clock. 

"  I  can  not  stop  to  answer  questions.  Be 
in  the  chalet  grounds  at  that  hour,"  said  she, 
and  was  gone,  chuckling  over  this  last  stroke, 
which  would  give  a  dramatic  finish  to  the  busi- 
ness. 

There  was  no  escape.  Nathalie  comprehend- 
ed that  Susanne  had  outwitted  her,  but  was  ig- 
norant of  the  means.  One  other  attempt  at  a 
scene  was  put  down  by  her  mother  with  a  high 
hand. 

"  I  give  you  a  choice,"  she  said  ;  "  the  wed- 
ding or  to  start  for  the  convent — as  a  novice  too. 
Do  you  prefer  marriage  or  taking  the  veil  ?  One 
or  the  other — I  will  not  be  disgraced — I  am  a 
dying  woman." 

It  was  Thursday  afternoon.  Darrell  Vaughan 
approached  the  chalet  gates  ;  he  saw  a  carriage 
drive  past  and  take  the  road  which  led  up  to  the 
station.  Susnnne  was  standing  on  the  door-step, 
her  handkerchief  at  her  eyes. 

"We  have  lost  her,"  said  that  worthy  wom- 
an; "Mademoiselle  was  married  half  an  hour 
ago." 

She  extended  her  hand.  It  might  have  been 
to  point  toward  the  station ;  it  might  have  been 
to  receive  any  little  reward  which  the  American 
should  feel  disposed  to  bestow  upon  her. 

So  Vaughan  set  out  on  his  journey  that  night, 
going  as  far  as  Brieg  by  the  rail,  that  he  might 
have  daylight  for  crossing  the  Simplon.  He  was 
furious.  He  knew  that  he  had  been  saved  from 
an  insanity  which  might  have  endangered  his 
whole  future,  but  he  was  furious  nevertheless. 
He  had  never  before  failed  in  any  scheme  upon 
which  his  fancy — his  heart  he  would  have  said 
— fixed  itself.  Brief  as  the  dream  was,  it  had 
taken  a  powerful  hold  of  his  mind  ;  he  felt  al- 
most readv  to  throw  up  his  entire  plan,  let  even- 
E 


thing  go,  and  follow  Nathalie.  But  he  could 
not  be  crazy  enough  for  this.  He  must  set  out 
on  his  journey ;  the  rage  and  mad  desire  would 
pass. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A    NEW    EXPERIENCE. 

Pis.v  is  a  stupid  old  place,  that  is  to  people 
who  crave  society.  But  Mr.  Cranford  found  a 
few  acquaintances  to  make  up  his  whist-table, 
and  was  content.  This  satisfied  Elizabeth.  She 
dreaded  nothing  so  much  as  the  seasons  when 
her  father  was  seized  with  a  whim  of  thought- 
fulness  on  her  account,  and  insisted  on  a  sojourn 
in  some  resort  where  balls  and  gayeties  could  be 
found.  Not  that  she  was  too  lofty  and  vision- 
ary to  enjoy  these  pleasures,  but  a  dread  always 
haunted  her  that  such  things  were  a  waste  of 
time. 

She  was  given  to  reading  authors  who  are 
eager  for  reforms,  and  tell  us  eloquently  about 
the  misery  there  is  in  the  world,  and  Elizabeth 
wanted  to  be  "  up  and  doing  "  instead  of  cast- 
ing in  her  lot  among  the  butterflies,  agreeable 
as  their  holiday  existence  might  be  in  certain 
ways. 

She  was  happy  in  the  dear  old  town.  She  en- 
joyed straying  about  the  Campo  Santo  or  mar- 
veling over  the  beautiful  Cathedral,  the  Bap- 
tistery, the  Leaning  Tower  —  that  most  pict- 
uresque of  all  groups  of  buildings,  standing  in 
the  grass -grown  square  where  every  thing  is 
so  still,  where  the  bells  sound  dreamy  and  in- 
dolent, and  the  very  beggars  are  too  lazy  to  rise 
and  persecute  any  unfortunate  stranger  who  may 
approach.  The  place  carries  one  back  centuries. 
One  would  not  be  surprised  to  see  Galileo  saun- 
ter past,  nor  be  startled  if  a  troop  of  Crusaders 
halted  to  say  a  prayer  in  the  church  before  set- 
ting out  for  the  Holy  Land. 

The  Craufords  found  a  charming  apartment 
in  a  faded  old  palace  which  had  once  been  the 
home  of  some  almost  royal  family.  Elizabeth 
delighted  in  the  vast  salons,  that  still  contained 
many  articles  of  the  ancient  furniture,  curiously 
carved  chairs,  wonderful  inlaid  cabinets,  and  the 
like.  There  was  a  balcony,  too,  from  whence 
she  could  look  out  over  the  distant  hills,  and 
watch  sunsets  and  the  moonlight,  and  lose 
herself  in  those  dreams  which  were  a  source 
of  reproach  to  her,  much  as  she  enjoyed  them. 
She  feared  that  they  too  were  a  sad  waste  of 
time. 

She  told  herself  that  she  had  been  very  idle 
of  late,  and  prepared  to  make  amends.  She 
brought  out  her  wisest,  heaviest  books,  and 
pored  diligently  over  musty  tomes,  afraid  that 
she  found  them  slightly  dull,  wishing  for  some 
real  occupation,  fearful  that  her  life  was  a  very 
useless  one,  and  wondering  vaguely  about  the 


CG 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


illimitable  future,  which  must  ever  be  so  attract- 
ive to  the  young. 

Elizabeth  Crauford  was  an  enthusiast  and  a 
worshiper  of  idols.  Of  that  latter  necessity  in 
her  nature,  no  better  proof  could  have  been  af- 
forded than  the  ardor  with  which  she  struggled 
to  throw  a  halo  about  her  father.  In  his  case, 
if  ever  she  failed,  a  tender  pity  might  still  keep 
her  heart  soft ;  but  in  other  instances  of  disap- 
pointment, a  father  hard  contempt  would  be  the 
feeling  left  in  Elizabeth's  mind  toward  the  ob- 
ject which  proved  unworthy  her  worship.  Most 
of  her  ideas  were  extreme,  as  was  natural  at  her 
age.  Duty  and  self-sacrifice  were  somewhat 
confused  in  her  thoughts.  It  was  to  be  feared 
that  she  would  often  mistake  the  latter  for  the 
former,  and  bring  much  pain  upon  herself.  She 
was  singularly  clear  in  her  reflections  and  anal- 
yses, in  spite  of  this.  She  might  have  become 
that  usually  to  be  dreaded  character,  "well-reg- 
ulated," had  not  her  impulsiveness  and  imagina- 
tive tendencies  stood  in  the  way.  Warm-hearted 
and  affectionate,  but  a  very  proud  woman  too. 
I  was  wrong  to  employ  that  word.  She  was 
thoroughly  a  girl.  It  would  not  have  been  easy 
to  predicate  her  future  character — so  much, 
with  her  peculiar  organization,  would  depend  on 
whether  she  found  happiness  or  the  reverse. 

She  was  a  beautiful  girl  too.  Not  tall,  but 
somehow  her  figure  gave  the  effect  of  height ;  a 
free,  graceful  carriage ;  a  face  full  of  promise, 
possessing  a  beauty  beyond  mere  girlish  loveli- 
ness ;  a  mouth  which,  in  repose,  looked,  as  Natha- 
lie had  said,  a  little  sad,  almost  stern  sometimes, 
but  which  had  a  world  of  delicious  smiles,  when 
she  would  permit  them  their  freedom ;  a  com- 
plexion exquisitely  fair,  too  pale  perhaps  ordina- 
rily ;  a  low,  broad  forehead,  and  rippling  masses 
of  hair  that  had  the  tints  of  bronze  in  its  waves. 
The  eyes  were  gray  or  hazel  according  to  the 
light — eyes  which  softened  easily  or  grew  black 
with  excitement.  A  peculiarly  sweet,  rich 
voice ;  an  earnest,  truthful  mode  of  speech, 
which  gave  one  a  feeling  of  respect  and  confi- 
dence. A  carefully  educated  young  person,  with 
a  love  for  languages  that  extended  even  to  the 
grand  old  tongues  which  have  no  echoes  left 
save  in  the  depth  and  strength  they  have  here 
and  there  given  to  the  weak,  musical  dialects 
which  have  sprung  out  of  their  dead  grandeur. 
Elizabeth  was  a  little  ashamed  of  her  ability  to 
read  the  Latin  poets  and  to  understand  Plato. 
Nothing  less  like  the  awful  creature  conjured  up 
by  the  term  "  blue  "  could  be  imagined.  I  may 
as  well  confess  the  extremity  of  her  sins  at  once: 
she  could  even  make  her  way  among  the  crabbed 
Hebrew  characters.  When  about  fifteen,  she 
had  spent  a  year  in  the  society  of  an  old  relative 
who  was  a  clergyman,  with  failing  sight,  and 
Elizabeth  had  plunged  into  the  study  that  she 
might  be  able  to  aid  his  purblind  eyes.  She 
guarded  her  secret  as  carefully  as  if  it  were  some- 


thing disgraceful,  and  her  father  would  undoubt- 
edly have  been  shocked.  He  believed  in  pretty 
accomplishments  for  young  ladies  —  decorous 
piano-forte  playing,  feeble  drawing,  a  good  ac- 
cent in  French  and  Italian — but  Hebrew  !  No 
scented  dandy  of  Piccadilly  or  Murray  Hill,  with 
an  inability  to  pronounce  the  letter  r,  could  have 
been  more  horrified  than  Mr.  Crauford  had  he 
known  the  truth.  Fortunately  he  lived  and  died 
without  ever  suspecting  it. 

To  do  something  with  her  life — not  be  some- 
thing— was  Elizabeth's  pet  dream.  If  her  fa- 
ther had  been  a  learned  man,  or  ambitious,  she 
could  have  aided  him.  She  was  very  useful, 
and  attentive  a  daughter  as  if  she  had  never 
dreamed  dreams ;  but  while  alive  to  the  prac- 
tical side  of  existence,  Elizabeth  thirsted  to 
gratify  her  visionary  and  enthusiastic  propensi- 
ties. Some  one  to  look  up  to  and  worship ; 
some  one  who  out  of  his  greatness  might  stoop 
to  make  her  poor  gifts  and  studies  of  service  in 
his  cause.  Failing  this,  to  be  a  sort  of  sister  of 
charity ;  employ  her  money  to  found  some  won- 
derful institution  for  good,  wherein  she  should 
toil  humbly,  no  human  being  ever  knowing  that 
her  efforts  and  wealth  had  been  the  foundation 
of  these  results. 

All  her  thoughts  and  plans  were  vague  enough 
— this  was  excusable  at  her  age.  Indeed,  I  am 
free  to  admit  that  she  was  probably  much  more 
lovable  for  this  very  reason.  She  had  too 
slight  faith  in  her  own  abilities  to  render  her 
either  bold  or  forward  in  her  hopes.  I  suppose 
she  thought  occasionally  of  loving  and  being  loved 
— a  youthful  soul  without  such  fancies  would  be 
as  unnatural  as  is  a  flower  without  perfume — yet 
she  was  oddly  shy,  perhaps  foolishly  so,  even  with 
her  own  thoughts,  where  these  matters  were  con- 
cerned. 

I  think  she  had  more  than  once  dreamed  of 
wedding  a  missionary.  Not  that  the  pictures 
drawn  of  those  unrecognized  saints  often  inter- 
ested her,  even  when  done  by  admiring  hands 
who  put  their  hearts  into  their  work ;  but  the 
idea  of  such  self-sacrifice  appealed  to  her  strong- 
ly. She  doubted  if  love  or  marriage  would 
come  to  her.  Certainly  there  was  little  pros- 
pect that  any  man  of  her  own  cge  would  be  at- 
tracted toward  her.  Elizabeth  feared  that  she 
was  dull  and  proud  ;  and  she  had  no  opinion 
whatever  of  her  own  beauty.  She  often  com- 
plained to  herself,  when  she  caught  sight  of  her 
image  in  a  mirror,  that  she  looked  like  a  statue 
or  something  cut  out  of  a  picture — one  of  those 
straight-nosed,  broad-browed,  serious-eyed  wom- 
en, who  might  serve  as  a  model  for  a  pre- 
Raphaelite  artist,  but  possessing  nothing  that 
one  could  call  loveliness,  or  that  would  please  a 
man,  young  like  herself.  It  was  very  grand,  no 
doubt,  to  think  of  being  loved  by  some  elderly 
sage,  some  philosopher,  who  had  long  since  left 
his  youth  on  the  steep  road  of  fame  up  which 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


C7 


he  had  so  gallantly  traveled;  still — Elizabeth 
smiled  and  blushed,  too,  in  recognition  of  her 
own  folly — that  life  would  appear  brighter,  fuller 
of  color,  if  the  love  of  a  hero,  possessed  of  youth- 
ful aspirations  like  her  own,  might  be  granted. 
It  never  would.  Indeed,  she  could  not  be  said 
to  dwell  upon  such  fancies.  Having  no  direct 
aim,  her  visions  were  all  impassible ;  but,  dream- 
er as  she  was,  the  apprenticeship  she  served  in  hu- 
moring and  waiting  on  her  father  might  have 
qualified  her  to  share  even  the  destiny  of  her 
fancied  missionary. 

The  soft  Italian  days  floated  by.  Elizabeth, 
when  not  absorbed  by  her  parent's  caprices,  was 
busy  with  her  books,  or  her  music  or  drawing  ; 
but  to  what  end  became  a  question  that  haunted 
her  more  and  more.  "  They  also  serve  who  only 
stand  and  wait!"  She  had  often  to  repeat  that 
glorious  sermon  in  a  line  to  herself  during  this 
season,  afraid  she  was  growing  impatient  and 
discontented.  But  you  are  not  to  get  the  idea 
that  she  was  either  morbid  or  restless.  She 
only  wanted  to  be  sure  that  she  was  doing  the 
best  with  duties  as  existence  offered.  Elizabeth's 
conscience  was  a  rather  uneasy  one.  Not  unsel- 
dom  you  may  see  that  in  consciences  which  are 
devoid  of  spot  or  stain.  Perhaps  they  flutter  rest- 
lessly just  because  they  have  no  weight  to  steady 
them,  for  I  observe  that  the  heavily  laden  ones 
usually  seem  to  bear  their  burden  blithely  enough. 

One  day  Elizabeth  was  sitting  in  her  favorite 
nook,  near  a  window  of  the  inner  salon,  a  win- 
dow which  opened  upon  the  balcony.  She  was 
at  work  on  an  illumination — a  quaint  old-fash- 
ioned task  which  seemed  just  meant  for  her. 
She  was  dressed  in  a  white  robe  of  some  soft, 
yielding  material,  that  fell  about  her  in  broad 
folds,  and  swept  away  over  the  floor  in  a  train 
which  she  had  the  art  of  managing  as  few  wom- 
en can  do.  There  were  bits  of  vivid  blue  at 
her  throat  and  waist,  a  knot  of  blue  flowers  in 
her  hair.  The  wide  sleeves  were  open  almost 
from  the  shoulder,  and  displayed  the  rounded 
beauty  of  her  arms,  as  they  rested  on  the  crim- 
son covering  of  the  table.  A  ray  of  sunlight 
stole  in  through  the  open  casement,  and  cast 
golden  reflections  about  her  head — not  like  a 
crown,  she  seemed  too  spiritual  for  that  thought 
— like  a  halo.  Had  one  been  fanciful,  one  might 
have  gone  further,  and  likened  it  to  a  virgin  mar- 
tyr's symbol.  Behind  her,  through  the  window, 
showed  a  background  of  towers,  a  castellated 
sweep  of  buildings,  the  river  ;  still  beyond,  the 
glory  of  the  mountains  and  the  amber  radiance 
of  the  sky. 

Her  father  entered  suddenly  with  a  guest ;  so 
quietly,  too,  that  Elizabeth,  absorbed  in  her  task, 
was  unconscious  of  their  approach  till  they  had 
nearly  reached  her.  Then  she  sat  quite  still, 
for  her  rather  short  sight  had  not  made  out  the 
second  figure,  but  she  supposed  it  a  gossip  of 
Mr.  Crauford's  who  often  visited  them. 


"  My  daughter,  Mr.  Vaughan,"  said  her  fa- 
ther, just  as  Elizabeth  had  discovered  that  the 
guest  was  a  stranger.  ' '  Elizabeth,  Mr.  Vaughan 
is  the  nephew  of  a  very  old  friend  of  mine ;  you 
have  often  heard  of  his  uncle.  We  must  make 
Mr.  Darrell  welcome  for  his  own  and  his  uncle's 
sake." 

So  Elizabeth  rose  in  her  slow,  queenly  fashion, 
looking  like  some  vestal  that  had  been  called 
down  from  a  noble  dream — like  some  vision  of 
ancient  romance — like  any  thing  rather  than  an 
ordinary  creature  belonging  to  this  prosaic  cent- 
ury, and  stood  face  to  face  with  Darrell  Vaughan. 
She  regarded  this  claimant  presented  for  her  fa- 
vor with  a  serious  gaze,  finding  it  difficult  to  get 
quickly  enough  back  from  her  abstraction. 

"You  are  very  welcome,  Mr. Vaughan,"  she 
said,  and  the  words,  which  otherwise  might  have 
sounded  a  little  stiff  and  studied,  took  a  pleasing 
depth  and  earnestness  when  uttered  in  that  mar- 
velous voice,  rendered  sweeter  by  the  look  of 
pleasure  which  softened  her  lips  into  an  almost 
childlike  smile. 

Vaughan  was  quite  able  to  appreciate  the 
picture  which  had  met  his  eyes  as  lie  walked  up 
the  room.  Now  the  living  figure  stepped  from 
its  frame,  and  he  was  able  to  recognize,  also 
to  admire,  the  grace  and  spiritual  beauty  that 
showed  in  face  and  form  and  brightened  the 
grave  eyes  which  met  his  with  an  odd  mingling 
of  sovereignty  and  maiden  reserve. 

Vaughan  perceived  that  he  had  arrived  at  a 
new  experience,  and  the  new  and  strange  were 
always  attractive  to  him. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE     STONE-FIGHT. 

MANY  hundred  years  ago  a  to^rably  lofty 
stone  wall  surrounded  Pisa,  over  against  which 
the  Florentines  often  sat  down,  armed  with  bat- 
tering-rams and  all  the  heavy  implements  of  an 
ancient  siege.  Within  these  walls  a  broad  road 
circled  the  city,  and  in  those  days  the  inhabitants 
at  one  gate  considered  those  dwelling  outside  the 
others  almost  as  great  strangers  as  they  did  the 
Florentines.  In  those  times,  too,  Pisa  was  cele- 
brated for  stone-fights,  waged  between  boys  of 
the  different  quarters,  either  brought  about  by 
deliberate  challenge  or  the  reckless  incursion  of 
a  troop  beyond  the  limits  of  their  own  territory. 

The  battles  with  the  Florentines  have  long 
since  degenerated  into  mere  wordy  contests ;  but 
the  moss-grown  walls  remain,  the  white  road  en- 
circling the  town  remains  too,  and  here  still  may 
be  witnessed  every  now  and  then  a  relic  of  me- 
diaeval barbarism  —  a  repetition  of  the  famous 
stone  contests. 

The  morning  after  his  arrival  in  the  quaint, 
dull  town,  Darrell  Vaughan  went  out  for  a  walk. 


cs 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


He  crossed  the  Anio  by  the  bridge  of  the  old 
fortress,  and,  passing  through  one  of  the  few 
sunny  streets,  took  the  broad  highway  which 
follows  the  walls.  He  had  scarcely  met  a  hu- 
man being  or  heard  a  sound.  Suddenly  the 
rush  of  feet  along  the  paved  road  roused  him, 
the  shrill  tones  of  scores  of  young  voices,  the 
whiz  and  whir  of  stones.  He  turned  an  angle 
and  found  himself  in  the  midst  of  a  retreating 
army.  He  could  not  have  believed  there  were 
so  many  children  to  be  seen  in  the  dead  old 
place.  Boys  of  all  ages  and  sizes,  from  six  years 
up  to  sixteen,  were  fleeing,  hotly  pursued  by  a 
larger  crowd  of  similar  age  and  size. 

Shrieks  and  imprecations  made  a  hideous  din. 
It  was  wonderful  also  to  see  the  childish  faces, 
usually  so  careless  and  good-natured,  roused  into 
a  fury  or  set  in  rigid  passion,  which  gave  them 
the  look  of  the  old  Tuscan  portraits  one  finds 
in  mouldy  picture-galleries.  The  retreating  foe 
wheeled  about  —  wheeled  so  quickly  that  they 
took  their  pursuers  by  surprise.  Again  a  volley 
of  stones  darkened  the  air.  Down  went  more 
than  one  combatant  on  either  side.  Yells  of 
rage  and  triumph  rose  more  deafening  than  ever. 

Vaughan  found  his  position  by  no  means  agree- 
able or  safe.  The  missiles  were  flying  about  his 
ears  like  hail,  and  the  struggling  hosts  paid  as 
little  attention  to  him  as  two  armies  of  ants  do 
to  a  philosophical  human  being  marveling  over 
their  battles.  So  Vaughan  ensconced  himself 
in  a  niche  where  a  very  deformed  figure  of  the 
Virgin  resided  in  a  diminutive  chamber  which 
sadly  needed  scouring,  and  stood  still  to  watch 
the  fight,  so  exactly  similar,  save  in  the  modern 
costumes,  to  the  famous  encounters  of  old,  out 
of  which  so  often  grew  fierce  disputes  and  quar- 
rels that  disturbed  the  whole  city  for  weeks,  and 
were  the  means  of  one  half  the  town  frequently 
being  ambuscaded  by  the  other. 

A  stone  did  invade  the  Virgin's  sanctuary, 
and  somewhat  injured  her  nose ;  but  Vaughan 
was  not  a  nervous  man,  and  kept  his  stand. 
Suddenly  from  a  side  street  came  a  tall,  rather 
bowed  male  figure,  and  Vaughan  laughed  heart- 
ily at  the  surprise  and  horror  in  the  face  as  the 
new-comer  discovered  himself  unexpectedly  in 
the  midst  of  this  hail-storm  with  retreat  cut  off, 
for  a  frenzied  onslaught  of  the  besieged  brought 
a  party  between  him  and  the  entrance  to  the 
street  up  which  he  had  passed. 

The  unfortunate  man  tried  to  run  first  one 
way,  then  another,  and  only  turned  helplessly 
round  and  round  like  some  mammoth  Trench 
toy  wound  up  by  machinery.  The  combatants 
•lid  not  seem  in  the  least  aware  ofhis  presence: 
the  stones  whizzed  over  his  head ;  he  ducked 
here,  skipped  there ;  the  boys  ran  against  him ; 
twice  he  was  actually  carried  along  in  a  rush  of 
a  small  party  skirmishing  on  the  flanks. 

I. ' Hiking  closer,  Vaughan  perceived  that  he 
knew  the  face;  it  was  the  dignified  Robert 


Crauford,  made  so  unwilling  and  alarmed  a 
participator  in  this  Pisan  relic  of  Middle-Age 
amusements.  Vaughan  enjoyed  his  absurd  pre- 
dicament ;  but  it  really  was  fraught  with  a  great 
deal  of  danger,  and  it  occurred  to  Darrell  that 
here  he  had  an  opportunity  to  ingratiate  himself 
in  the  elderly  gentleman's  favor.  He  had  seen 
enough  of  Mr.  Crauford  in  a  single  visit  to  know 
that  any  personal  matter  must  always  appear  of 
vast  importance  to  him.  This  fight,  in  which  he 
was  forced  to  take  at  least  a  passive  share,  would 
be  the  most  formidable  danger  any  human  creat- 
ure had  ever  run  since  the  days  of  Thermopylae. 

So  out  dashed  Vaughan  —  scattered  the  foes 
right  and  left  —  brought  them,  by  good  round 
execrations  in  fair  Italian,  enough  to  their  senses 
to  perceive  that  they  had  cornered  two  strangers. 
The  stones  ceased  to  fly — the  leaders  on  either 
side  condescended  to  explain.  Mr. Crauford  rec- 
ognized Vaughan,  and  clung  to  him  desperately. 
His  forehead  was  bleeding  from  a  little  cut.  Al- 
together he  considered  the  affair  of  such  magni- 
tude that  as  soon  as  he  could  find  voice  he  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  bringing  the  matter 
before  consuls,  embassadors,  the  King  of  Italy 
himself,  on  the  ground  that  the  majesty  and  free- 
dom of  Columbia's  happy  land  had  been  menaced 
in  his  (Robert  Craufbrd's)  august  person. 

While  he  talked,  on  swept  the  two  armies 
along  the  highway,  and  left  Vaughan  to  soothe 
the  frightened  man — indignant  he  called  him- 
self, but  frightened  was  the  adjective  which  more 
correctly  expressed  his  appearance.  He  had  lost 
his  hat — it  lay  trampled  out  of  all  shape  at  the 
side  of  the  road ;  he  was  covered  with  white 
dust  raised  by  the  armies ;  hoarse  with  shouting ; 
his  hands  were  stained  with  the  blood  which 
trickled  from  his  scratch  —  a  wound  he  styled 
it ;  altogether,  he  was  in  very  pitiable  case. 

Vaughan  helped  him  down  the  street  till  they 
found  a  carriage ;  once  seated  therein,  and  a 
kerchief  bound  carefully  about  his  bumpy  fore- 
head, Mr.  Crauford  could  rush  into  ejaculations 
of  gratitude,  mingled  with  expressions  which 
showed  that  he  regarded  Vaughan  as  a  very 
fortunate  person  to  have  been  able  to  succor 
Robert  Crauford,  Esq.,  in  a  moment  of  peril. 

"  You  did  a  gallant  thing,  sir,"  he  said.  ';  My 
life  would  not  have  been  worth  the  purchase  an 
instant  later." 

By  the  time  they  reached  his  house  the  affair 
had  assumed  gigantic  proportions,  and  as  he  had 
managed  to  smear  the  blood  over  his  face,  hands, 
and  shirt-front,  his  appearance  at  first  alarmed 
Elizabeth.  Even  when  she  discovered  there  was 
no  real  hurt,  she  felt  inclined  also  to  regard 
Vaughan  as  a  hero  and  a  friend.  Dan-ell  per- 
ceived that  his  morning's  stroll  had  been  a  lucky 
business,  and  admired  the  Pisan  youths  for  per- 
severing in  the  barbaric  sports  of  their  ancestors. 

So  in  the  very  beginning  Mr.  Crauford  con- 
ceived an  enthusiastic  admiration  for  Darrell 


MR.  VAUGHAX'S  HEIR. 


Vaughan,  and  speedily  elevated  him  into  a 
prophet  and  the  hope  of  the  future.  It  was  not 
often  that  Mr.  Crauford  bestowed  more  than 
grudging  praise,  or  yielded  other  than  a  doubtful 
belief  in  men's  motives ;  but  in  this  case  all  was 
different.  Mr.  Crauford  seemed  to  have  devel- 
oped a  need  of  idol  worship,  and  he  put  Vaughan 
on  the  pedestal  vacant  in  his  soul. 

During  the  first  few  days  of  his  sojourn,  Dar- 
rell  devoted  himself  almost  entirely  to  her  father, 
and  he  could  have  chosen  no  course  which  would 
so  rapidly  have  ingratiated  him  in  Elizabeth's 
favor.  He  appeared  different  in  every  way  from 
young  men  with  whom  she  had  hitherto  been 
thrown  in  contact.  He  neither  talked  frivolity 
nor  was  interested  in  the  racing  calendar,  as,  in 
her  somewhat  contemptuous  opinion,  Elizabeth 
had  supposed  must  be  the  case  with  masculines 
under  forty.  Fiery  denunciations  of  wrong  and 
injustice  —  eloquent  diatribes  against  youth 
wasted  in  idleness  and  elegant  vice  —  words 
vague,  but  energetic  and  golden,  which  betrayed 
some  deep  purpose  within,  some  lofty  aim  for 
the  future,  which,  if  necessary,  he  looked  ready 
to  follow  out  to  martyrdom :  such  themes  were 
often  on  his  lips,  and  proved  additional  aids  to- 
ward gaining  her  sympathy.  She  listened  to 
this  talk,  never  stilted  nor  sententious,  and  her 
cheeks  glowed  and  her  heart  warmed.  These 
were  the  desires  and  motives  she  had  hoped  to 
find  in  his  age  and  sex,  but  had  only  met  with 
disappointment  until  now. 

The  speeches  he  had  delivered  in  Congress, 
the  articles  he  had  contributed  to  solid  reviews, 
the  addresses  which  created  an  excitement  in  the 
two  great  capitals — Mr.  Crauford  showed  Eliza- 
beth all  these ;  it  was  she  who  read  them  aloud, 
sharing  fully  in  her  father's  admiration. 

"I  did  not  think  they  would  fall  under  your 
eyes,"  Vaughan  said,  when  he  came  to  know  the 
facts.  "  How  very  considerate  you  are  in  every 
thing  that  concerns  your  father;  for  I  suppose 
you  do  not  care  about  such  matters." 

' '  Why  should  I  not  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Indeed — well,  I  have  no  reason — but  I  fancy 
young  ladies  do  not  usually.  I  was  thinking 
last  night  you  must  have  found  me  awfully  dry 
and  dull.  Ever  since  I  came  here  I  have  been 
riding  my  hobbies  unconscionably  ;  somehow  Mr. 
Crauford's  sympathy  led  me  into  it. " 

"I  hope  it  may  still  lead  you  on,"  she  an- 
swered; "and  I  wish  you  would  believe  in  my 
sympathy  too." 

Just  her  pet  dreams  and  aspirations  were  those 
which  showed  themselves  to  be  his  favorite  rules 
and  plans  of  life :  a  man  who  meant  to  devote  his 
existence  to  political  philanthropy — that  is,  one 
who  entered  politics  for  the  express  hope  of  do- 
ing the  most  good  for  the  greatest  number  of 
his  kind — it  sounded  wonderfully  well.  Then 
he  loved  books,  poetry,  art ;  he  worshiped  the 
beautiful  and  true  in  their  highest  forms.  Eliza- 


beth was  ready  to  believe  in  her  father's  proph- 
et, and  bow  in  reverent  esteem  before  his  idol. 
That  idol  had  a  marvelous  faculty  of  making 
Mr.  Crauford  see  with  his  eyes,  and  yet  flatter- 
ing the  worthy  gentleman  into  the  belief  that  it 
was  by  his  own  eagle  sight  both  were  guided. 

It  was  impossible,  of  course,  to  avoid  giving 
Mr.  Crauford  the  letter  which  had  been  found 
among  Edgar  Vaughan's  papers,  and  that  letter 
left  Elizabeth's  choice  unfettered  between  his  two 
nephews. 

"Dear  me!"  said  Mr.  Crauford,  perplexed. 
"This  is  very  awkward  ;  I  did  not  understand 
this." 

"Because  it  was  a  delicate  and  painful  sub- 
ject, which  I  did  not  like  to  touch  upon  in  my 
letter  to  you,"  Vaughan  replied.  "  You  will  per- 
ceive that  this  was  written  only  a  few  weeks  be- 
fore my  uncle's  illness." 

"Well?" 

"  He  made  a  will  dividing  his  fortune  between 
us,  his  two  nephews.  New  circumstances  came 
to  light,  which  showed  him  that  unfortunately 
his  first  judgment  of  Launce  Cromlin  was  cor- 
rect ;  he  made  complete  changes  on  that  account. 
His  whole  property  was  left  to  me  ;  if  I  chose,  I 
was  at  liberty  to  pay  my  relative  ten  thousand 
dollars.  You  can  judge  for  yourself  whether  he 
would  have  wished  the  codicil  in  regard  to  this 
other  property  to  hold ;  only  sudden  illness  pre- 
vented its  alteration." 

"Dear  me!"  again  ejaculated  Mr.  Crauford. 

"  There  is,  too,  another  way  of  looking  at  it," 
pursued  Darrell.  "My  uncle  was  a  gentle- 
hearted  man;  he  may  have  thought  Launce 
should  still  have  this  chance  for  retrieving  his 
past ;  whether  you  and  your  daughter  would  be 
willing  to  give  it  to  him  is  a  question  for  you  to 
decide." 

"  Impossible !  I  blame  your  uncle ;  he  might 
have  —  why,  there  is  no  telling  what  trouble  be 
might  have  caused !  A  man  who  had  committed 
a  forgery — a — " 

"That  is  a  secret  between  us,"  Darrell  said, 
softly. 

"And  where  is  he  now?  Does  he  know  ot 
this  matter  of  the  will  ?" 

"I  suppose  he  does  by  this  time.  Carstoe 
and  I  wrote ;  it  was  our  duty." 

Mr.  Crauford  bounced  about  in  a  state  of 
wretched  excitement.  "  Suppose  he  were  to  hunt 
us  up  ?"  he  asked. 

"Then  you  would  be  at  liberty  to  close  your 
doors  against  him  if  you  saw  fit." 

"  I  should  think  so.     Why—' 

"  A  very  winning  fellow  is  Launce ;  I  never 
could  resist  him  !  Where  women  are  concerned, 
I  believe  if  they  had  seen  him  commit  a  murder  he 
could  manage  to  make  it  appear  a  heroic  act." 

"Good  Lord!"  quavered  Mr.  Crauford. 
"GWLord!" 

"Miss  Crauford  is  a  girl  of  remarkable  sense 


70 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


and  judgment,"  Darrell  continued  ;  "  but  once 
interest  that  keen  sympathy  of  hers,  and  it  would 
blind  her  judgment.  Launce  would  be  able  to 
show  that  his  uncle  had  come  to  believe  in  his 
innocence.  It  would  not  then  be  difficult  to 
convince  her  that  he  had  died  in  the  belief;  that 
the  fact  of  the  will,  which  in  our  eyes  proves  the 
contrary,  went  for  nothing  ;  that  he  would  have 
altered  it— given  Launce  a  share  of  his  property 
had  there  been  time." 

"Good Lord !" exclaimed  Mr. Crauford,  quer- 
ulously. 

"I  learned  to  love  your  daughter  before  I 
ever  saw  her !  I  love  her  well  enough  I  think — 
I  know— to  be  unselfish.  If  I  believed  it  were 
for  her  happiness,  I  could— yes,  I  would— bring 
Launce  to  her  myself,  and  go  my  way — " 

"Nobody  wants  you  to  go  away,"  interrupted 
Mr.  Crauford.  "Now  don't  complicate  things 
by  talking  like  that !  Oh,  my  head !  What  a 
neuralgia  I  shall  have!"  . 

"  Of  course  the  bare  possibility  of  your  daugh- 
ter's becoming  interested  in  such  a  man  is  pain- 
ful," Vaughan  said ;  "  but  the  plan  you  suggest 
settles  all  difficulty — yonr  decisions  are  so  won- 
derfully clear  and  rapid !" 

Mr.  Crauford  looked  elated  and  embarrassed, 
as  a  man  might  who  had  never  arrived  at  a  de- 
cision in  his  life ;  but  he  believed  that  he  had 
here,  only  he  was  not  quite  certain  what  the  re- 
solve might  have  been,  luminous  as  it  appeared 
to  his  companion,  so  he  said — "Well?" 

"  Launce,  I  have  reason  to  believe,  is  in  Cali- 
fornia ;  once  the  ten  thousand  dollars  in  his 
hands,  he  will  think  of  nothing  else  till  he  has 
gambled  it  away — so  that  rids  you  of  him." 

"Elizabeth  would  not  know  him;  she  would 
despise  the  rascal." 

"If  there  were  not  several  things  in  his  favor. 
Let  him  convince  her  that  he  had  suffered  un- 
just suspicion — " 
"Then  what  are  we  to  do?" 
"Persist  in  our  original  resolve.     Say  noth- 
ing whatever  to  Miss  Crauford  about  my  cousin. 
As  you  said,  that  will  be  the  wisest  course." 

It  was  a  comfort  to  hear  a  positive  plan  of 
action  clearly  and  definitely  announced  ;  a  keen 
pleasure,  in  spite  of  the  worthy  gentleman's  agi- 
tation, to  pounce  on  it  as  his  own. 

"I  think  we  have  arranged  it  for  the  best,  in- 
deed," said  he. 

"  The  letter  for  your  daughter  which  my  uncle 
left  is  not  written  in  a  wny  to  rouse  any  ques- 
tion ;  it  simply  speaks  of  the  happiness  it  would 
have  been  to  call  her  his  niece — pleasant,  gen- 
eral phrases,  you  know.  The  letter  was  sealed 
like  yours,  but  Mr.  Carstoe  wrote  at  his  dictation 
— Mr.  Carstoe  told  me." 

Mr.  Carstoe  had  never  rend  a  syllable  of  either 
letter — was  ignorant  of  their  contents. 

"  It  is  all  very  odd,  very  troublesome,"  sighed 
Mr.  Crauford. 


"Yes;  as  yon  suggested,  the  best  thing  now 
is  to  put  the  codicil  out  of  our  heads,"  returned 
Vaughan.  "  You  are  good  enough  to  like  me, 
to  be  willing  to  accept  me  as  your  son-in-law  if  I 
can  succeed  in  winning  your  daughter's  regard." 

"  That  with  all  my  heart,"  said  Mr.  Crauford, 
more  energetically  than  he  often  spoke.  It  was 
a  memorable  speech  from  this  one  fact — that  he 
never  contradicted  it,  he  who  lived  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  self-contradiction  and  retraction,  and 
mental  uncertainties  of  all  sorts. 

Mr.  Crauford's  imagination  displayed  just  now 
a  brilliancy  which  it  had  never  done  in  his  count- 
less unfinished  poetic  efforts.  He  pictured  to 
himself  a  being  who  was  a  cross  between  Meph- 
istopheles  and  the  Duke  de  Richelieu  —  a  man 
brought  into  the  world  for  the  express  ruin  and 
destruction  of  female  peace  in  one  wny  or  anoth- 
er— a  creature  with  delightful,  devilish  fascina- 
tions, and  great  talents  perverted — a  mass  of  in- 
congruities, which  could  never  have  held  together 
— and  he  called  this  figment  of  his  fancy  Launce 
Cromlin. 

The  desire  that  his  daughter  should  marry 
Vaughan  would  have  caused  him  to  rush  into 
open,  unadvised  partisanship,  had  not  the  astute 
young  gentleman  held  him  back.  An  odd  per- 
sonal motive  also  aided  Mr.  Crauford  to  keep  si- 
lence concerning  the  will  and  provisional  bequest. 
He  had,  as  I  have  said,  always  been  jealous  of 
Edgar  Vaughan— jealous,  that  is,  of  the  memory 
he  believed  left  in  his  wife's  mind  of  her  earliest 
suitor.  If  Elizabeth  wedded  Darrell,  he  wished 
to  feel  that  his  former  rival's  plans  and  wishes 
had  nothing  to  do  with  her  decision.  It  would 
be  a  constant  source  of  irritation  to  think  that 
after  death  the  man  gained  an  influence  over  the 
daughter  as  he  had  retained  while  living  a  place 
in  the  mother's  recollection. 

Then,  too,  Mr.  Crauford  greatly  enjoyed  the 
possession  of  a  secret ;  the  sense  of  importance, 
and  the  absurd  feeling  that  he  was  in  a  certain 
way  thwarting  his  dead  rival  by  excluding  his 
expressed  desires  from  participation  in  the  affair, 
kept  Mr. Crauford's  little  soul  puffed  out  like  the 
plumage  of  a  pouter  pigeon,  and  rendered  him 
very  happy. 

The  days  and  weeks  went  on. 

At  length  a  letter  from  Mr.  Carstoe  reached 
Darrell — it  had  been  sent  to  London,  and  for- 
warded from  thence  by  his  bankers.  Darrell 
knew  that  Launce  Cromlin  was  very,  very  ill,  and 
his  recovery  far  remote,  though  the  physicians 
believed  that  his  strong  constitution  would  ulti- 
mately conquer.  So  Vaughan  could  even  rid 
himself  of  the  idea  that  haste  was  necessary  in 
the  carrying  out  of  his  projects,  and  his  content- 
ment nearly  equaled  Mr.  Crauford's  own. 

To  peripatetic  Americans  and  English  in  gen- 
eral, Pisa  is  a  place  to  visit  in  the  interval  be- 
tween two  trains ;  but  to  people  who  have  sat 
down  there  in  the  quiet,  Pisa  and  its  environs 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


71 


make  a  delightful  memory.  There  is  a  pleasant 
drive  to  the  sea  and  the  bay  in  which  poor  Shel- 
ley was  drowned,  with  a  pine-wood  casting  long 
shadows  over  the  waters,  and  a  glorious  view  of 
Spezzia  in  the  distance.  There  is  a  famous  old 
Pilgrim  church  near  where  the  ancient  harbor 
of  Pisa  is  supposed  to  have  been — an  old  church, 
with  broken  marble  columns  and  faded  frescos, 
erected  upon  the  spot  where  Popish  legends  de- 
clare St.  Peter  first  set  foot  on  the  Italian  shore. 

Like  a  thorough,  understanding  church-wom- 
an, Elizabeth  was  prepared  to  refute  this  tale, 
and  prove  by  tbe  most  credible  of  the  primitive 
historians  that  the  great  disciple  never  left  the 
East,  but  met  with  martyrdom  upon  the  banks 
of  the  Euphrates,  thereby  destroying  the  very 
claim  on  which  the  Romish  power  asserts  its 
right  to  sovereignty  over  all  branches  of  the  Cath- 
olic faith.  There  is  a  fine  Carthusian  monastery 
some  six  miles  back  among  the  blue  Pisan  hills ; 
from  thence  an  excursion  up  a  steep  mountain, 
on  whose  summit  are  noticeable  ruins — a  mount- 
ain called  La  Verucca,  a  name  suggestive  of 
something  so  odious  and  unsightly  that  one  nev- 
er cares  to  translate  it  into  English. 

So  the  days  passed  pleasantly  indeed,  and 
brought  about  a  closer  companionship  between 
Elizabeth  and  this  man  who  had  so  unexpected- 
ly crossed  the  monotonous  course  of  her  life, 
brightening  its  sameness  by  the  charm  of  his 
presence. 

Vaughan  was  almost  constantly  with  them, 
and  never  had  she  found  society  so  suited  to  her 
taste.  His  marvelous  faculty  of  adapting  him- 
self to  the  habits  and  fancies  of  others  served  ad- 
mirably here.  He  quickly  comprehended  enough 
of  Elizabeth's  enthusiastic  nature  to  enable  him 
to  take  the  lead  in  the  expression  of  ideas  and 
dreams  which  filled  her  mind — doing  it  so  well 
that  often  it  seemed  to  her  she  owed  their  clear- 
ness and  even  their  dawn  to  his  suggestions. 
Altogether,  two  months  passed  in  daily  inter- 
course between  Elizabeth  Crauford  and  this  young 
man.  From  the  first  she  had  been  led  to  sup- 
pose his  visit  to  Europe  ordered  after  great  and 
prolonged  mental  exertion,  otherwise  she  would 
have  objected  to  ease  and  repose.  There  was 
so  much  work  to  be  done  in  the  world  —  its 
needs  were  so  vast — that  she  must  see  a  neces- 
sity for  any  body's  resting  in  order  to  excuse  the 
delay. 

The  time  came  at  length  when  she  could  not 
fail  to  perceive  that  Vaughan  had  some  special 
motive  in  lingering  with  them — when  it  became 
equally  plain  that  her  father  saw  and  approved 
this  motive. 

So  a  new  and  unknown  restlessness  entered 
Elizabeth's  life,  but  it  was  a  very  pleasant  one. 

If  any  spirit  guide  could  have  made  plain  to 
her  the  fact  that  in  this  man  she  saw  only  the 
shadow  of  her  lofty  ideal  without  consistence, 
she  would  have  been  astounded  to  discover  how 


this  thought  had  lain  at  her  heart  and  she  been 
still  ignorant  of  it. 

She  grew  to  believe  thoroughly  in  Darrell 
Vaughan — to  accept  him  as  the  embodiment  of 
her  hero  who  was  to  struggle  for  right,  and  win 
tangible  results  in  the  form  of  general  good.  A 
hero  who  toiled  neither  for  fame  nor  ambition ; 
who  chose  deliberately  the  hardest  path — put  by 
the  dreams  which  would  have  induced  him  to  be- 
come either  poet  or  artist — accepted  the  world's 
dusty  high-road — the  hardships  and  wearinesses 
of  a  politician's  course — simply  because  the  age 
needed  a  man  capable  of  doing  this  for  philan- 
thropy's sake. 

That  she  could  be  thought  worthy  to  have 
part  or  lot  in  this  grand  destiny — grand,  wheth- 
er success  or  disappointment  crowned  its  efforts, 
since  the  aim  was  there,  and  some  portion  of 
good  must  be  wrought — filled  her  with  pride  and 
gratitude. 

She  believed  in  him — she  would  have  shrunk 
from  no  sacrifice  which  might  aid  in  his  work. 
There  was  no  task  so  humble,  no  drudgery  so 
severe,  that  she  would  not  have  gloried  in  it  for 
the  work's  sake. 

Sometimes,  even  when  not  soaring  off  on  the 
wings  of  hobbies  and  noble  endeavor,  there  was 
a  rare  charm  in  his  presence.  At  other  mo- 
ments the  man  who  sat  by  her  seemed  suddenly 
to  change.  A  veil  lifted,  as  it  were,  or  a  haxe 
came  between  her  consciousness  and  him.  It  was 
all  vague ;  something  she  did  not  understand 
enough  to  dwell  upon  with  any  clearness.  There 
were  lights  in  those  eyes  sometimes  —  smiles  on 
that  handsome  mouth — variations  in  his  manner 
— twice,  almost  a  confusion  and  incoherency  in 
his  talk  (passing  quickly,  to  leave  a  strange  lu- 
minousness  behind)  —  glances,  tones,  things  so 
different  from  his  usual  seeming,  that  she  shrank 
almost  affrighted. 

These  intuitions  seldom  really  affect  us ;  we 
look  back  and  recognize  them  later,  but  the  soul 
is  as  powerless  to  make  its  own  prescience  pal- 
pably felt  by  our  mortal  consciousness  as  it  is 
to  put  before  us  clear  gleams  of  that  soul's  expe- 
rience in  lives  antecedent  to  this — experiences 
which  can  no  more  have  had  a  beginning  than 
they  can  find  an  end,  if  eternity  be  that  soul's 
portion. 

The  day  came  when  Vaughan  put  his  hopes 
into  words,  and  then,  indeed,  the  romance  and 
poetry  assumed  their  proper  place,  and  Eliza- 
beth the  enthusiast  dreamed  that  she  was  stray- 
ing away  into  Eden,  and  felt  no  fear — only  a 
beautiful  joy  at  knowing  her  hand  clasped  in  this 
man's,  ready  to  believe  her  heart  within  reach  of 
his  forever.  Did  he  love  her  ?  He  would  have 
said  so,  and  credited  his  own  words.  Vaughan 
could  no  more  help  longing  for  the  possession  of 
a  beautiful  woman  than  he  could  for  wine,  hash- 
eesh— any  excitement ;  and  Elizabeth  was  a  new 
experience.  To  put  humanity  into  the  statue— 


MR.  VAUGIIAN'S  HEIR. 


fire — passion — the  idea  was  pleasant.  That  she 
would  only  turn  into  an  ordinary  woman  if  he 
succeeded,  did  not  trouble  him  ;  he  did  not  even 
stop  to  think  that  then  she  would  become  n 
weariness,  and  fare  as  others  had  done. 

Great  wealth  —  great  reputation  —  boundless 
power — Vaughan  meant  to  have  all  these.  Hon- 
or and  virtue  were  lovely  abstractions  to  him, 
like  the  mythological  fables  which  clad  them  in 
glorious  shapes  and  called  them  gods.  Sin,  as 
i-in,  was  just  as  much  au  abstraction,  however 
agreeable  indulgence  might  be.  He  was  as  in- 
capable of  feeling  shame  in  the  gratification  of 
his  appetites  as  he  was  of  remorse  at  flinging  out 
of  his  path,  by  any  means,  an  object  which  in- 
terfered with  his  course.  Tut  spiders  in  a  bot- 
tle :  the  smallest  will  be  devoured  by  the  next 
in  size,  and  so  on  until  there  is  only  one  bloated 
monster  to  be  seen.  Vaughan  would  not  have 
called  the  conqueror  a  monster — he  would  have 
admired  him  as  a  visible  expression  of  strength. 
He  carried  the  same  creed  through  all  spheres 
of  life  and  action.  -  He  would  have  told  you,  too 
— if  he  had  chosen  to  let  you  get  at  his  secret 
thoughts  —  that  any  fresh  sensation  which  the 
soul  craved,  whether  upward  or  downward,  pure 
or  vile,  was  an  experience  offered  that  soul,  and 
a  part  of  its  development.  To  reject  the  tempta- 
tion because  it  interfered  with  what  men  term 
right  or  decency  would  he  an  act  of  consummate 
folly  and  a  relic  of  priestcraft. 

When  Vaughan  had  told  the  story  of  his  love 
— had  dwelt  on  the  bright  future  which  her 
companionship  was  to  render  still  better  worth 
the  living — Elizabeth  asked  for  a  week's  reflec- 
tion. It  was  all  beautiful.  The  thought  of  hav- 
ing won  such  affection  filled  her  with  a  sweet 
trouble.  It  was  herself  only  that  she  doubted — 
was  she  worthy  ?  Her  own  unfitness  for  mar- 
riage had  been  a  rather  firmly  settled  creed  in 
her  mind,  but  the  old  theories  faded  and  lost  their 
force  now. 

"  I  will  wait  any  time  that  you  set,"  Vaughan 
answered  to  her  request.  "A  week — it  seems 
a  long  while  !  Perhaps  I  have  been  too  bold — 
it  did  not  come  from  arrogance  or  vanity  though, 
I  am  sure.  Let  me  try  to  tell  you  how  it  was. 
My  own  heart  was  so  moved,  I  think  it  seemed 
to  me  impossible  that  yours  could  remain  un- 
touched. I  might  have  known  you  were  too  no- 
ble— too — " 

Elizabeth  stopped  him  by  a  little  sign.  A  viv- 
id color  tinted  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  looked 
at  once  earnest  and  disturbed.  It  was  an  effort 
to  speak,  but  she  struggled  bravely. 

''It  is  not  that — please  do  not  misunderstand 
me— it  was  of  myself— the  doubt  of  my  own  fit- 

"  Elizabeth,  Elizabeth !"  he  cried,  uttering  her 
name  for  the  first  time  as  her  broken  sentence 
died  unfinished  ;  "you  do  care— you  do  !''  He 
was  bending  over  her ;  she  felt  his  kisses  on  her 


hands ;  yet  this  first  show  of  passion  startled 
and  troubled  her,  though  she  could  not  put  the 
feeling  into  words.  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  he 
said,  drawing  back.  "Ah,  can  you  not  under- 
stand— I  love  you — I  love  you  !  I  am  only  hu- 
man— you  have  been  a  sort  of  beautiful  abstrac- 
tion all  your  life — my  whole  heart  and  soul  have 
gone  out  to  you,  and  I  could  not  call  them  back. " 

But  it  was  not  any  exhibition  of  passion  or 
eagerness  which  touched  her.  He  saw  this. 
Such  outbursts  only  troubled,  almost  terrified 
her.  Tenderness  —  calm  aftection — those  vast 
plans  for  the  future,  that  hope  of  sharing  in  his 
work — these  were  spells  which  had  drawn  her  to- 
ward him  :  to  their  potency  he  mnst  still  trust. 

He  told  her  of  having  seen  her  miniature  and 
those  letters — of  the  dream  which  sprang  up  in 
his  heart  before  their  first  meeting. 

"I  have  another  secret,  too,"  he  added;  "you 
must  hear  that  now." 

Then  followed  the  story  of  his  uncle's  project 
— of  the  condition  which  in  his  will  he  had  at- 
tached to  the  fulfillment  of  that  desire. 

He  placed  the  dead  man's  letter  in  her  hands, 
and  left  her  to  read  it. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

BACK   TO    LIFE. 

THE  glorious  sunlight  of  a  spring  morning 
shines  into  the  room  ;  the  window  is  open  ;  the 
breeze  enters  too,  whispering  sofily,  bringing  the 
voices  of  the  birds  and  the  scent  of  the  early 
flowers  on  its  wings — a  room  in  the  California!! 
villa  where  old  Mr.  Vaughan  died,  the  large, 
cheerful  library  which  he  had  fitted  up  with  the 
care  one  naturally  bestows  upon  an  apartment 
that  is  to  be  the  favorite  shrine  in  the  sanctuary 
of  home. 

Lnnnce  Cromlin  sits  here  this  morning,  lean- 
ing back  in  his  easy-chair,  a  little  weary  from 
the  effort  of  having  been  helped  out  of  his  cham- 
ber for  the  first  time  since  that  terrible  illness 
struck  him  down.  Launce  has  been  away  oiF 
close  to  the  gates  of  Death  since  then,  so  close 
that  often  in  moments  of  semi-consciousness  he 
seemed  to  hear  familiar  voices  call  to  him  from, 
the  other  side,  and  wondered  dreamily  that  those 
friends  did  not  open  the  great  portals  and  let 
him  through.  Before  his  reviving  faculties  reach- 
ed even  such  vague,  disconnected  attempts  at 
thought,  there  were  long  weeks  of  wild  delirium, 
followed  by  still  longer  weeks  whose  record  must 
always  remain  a  blank — when  the  soul  made  no 
sign  to  denote  its  presence  in  the  earthly  taber- 
nacle— when  for  days  and  nights,  and  nights  and 
days,  it  needed  the  skill  of  physicians  or  sage 
nurses  to  be  certain  that  a  faint  ray  of  the  mys- 
terious power  we  call  vitality  still  lingered  in  the 
dull,  senseless  frame. 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


73 


He  has  been  well  cared  for — that  seemed  to 
Mr.  Carstoe  a  plain  duty ;  but  the  quiet,  reti- 
cent man  has  gone  beyond  the  exactions  of  this 
chill  word.  Were  Launce  his  son — that  dream- 
son  who  sometimes  finds  a  place  in  the  solitary 
old  bachelor's  musings,  practical  as  he  is — more 
earnestness  and  devotion  could  not  have  been 
displayed.  So  to-day  they  have  moved  the  con- 
valescent into  the  library.  Strength  and  its  ac- 
companying restlessness  have  begun  to  return, 
and  life  is  to  go  on  once  more,  and  slip  gradually 
.  back  into  its  ordinary  channels.  Launce  is  al- 
ways hungry  or  sleepy,  or  reversing  the  order  of 
those  requirements,  and  Mr.  Carstoe  and  the 
stiff  housekeeper  are  delighted  with  his  prodigies 
in  both  lines.  Launce  begins  to  wonder  in  his 
quaint  way  whether  his  proper  soul  did  not  make 
its  exit  during  that  long  blank,  and  the  soul  of  a 
cormorant  or  some  antediluvian  creature  with 
huge  appetite  take  advantage  of  the  rightful  own- 
er's absence  to  assume  possession  of  his  corporeal 
frame. 

"Mercy  sakes!  he  aint  flighty  again,  is  he?" 
asks  the  housekeeper,  in  an  audible  whisper, 
when  she  hears  Launce  expressing  his  absurd 
fancy  to  Mr.  Carstoe. 

"No,  no,  Mrs.  Simpson;  I  am  all  right," 
Launce  replies,  laughing. 

"Then  the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  stay 
so,"  observes  Simpson,  erect  and  rigid.  She 
has  come  in  a  sort  to  regard  Launce  as  her  prop- 
erty after  all  the  care  she  has  bestowed,  and  is 
inclined  to  show  her  interest  by  scolding  him 
now  and  then — a  liberty  which  he  finds  rather 
pleasant  than  otherwise.  "So  please  don't  let 
us  hear  any  talk  about  your  being  any  of  those 
creeturs  that  aint  to  be  found  any  more  than 
Jonah's  whale.  We  had  enough  of  that  when 
you  was  stretched  on  your  back  and  knowed  no 
better,"  adds  Simpson. 

"  I  suppose  I  talked  an  awful  lot  of  rubbish  ?" 
Launce  says. 

"I  suppose  you  did,"  retorted  Simpson,  ar- 
ranging the  sofa  cushions,  just  to  have  the  satis- 
faction of  doing  something  for  this  patient  who 
will  soon  pass  from  under  her  charge.  She  does 
her  work  so  deftly,  and  looks  so  preternatural- 
ly  grim  when  most  solicitous,  that  she  affords 
Launce  a  great  deal  of  amusement. 

It  is  Sunday,  so  Mr.  Carstoe  has  leisure  to 
spend  the  whole  day  with  the  young  man,  and 
Launce  makes  him  talk  till  Simpson  several  times 
bustles  in  and  scolds  them  both.  Simpson  has  an 
idea  that  men  are  only  gigantic  children,  and  need 
to  be  grumbled  at  on  every  possible  occasion. 

The  doctor  pays  his  visit,  and  pronounces  the 
convalescent  doing  as  nicely  as  possible ;  and 
Simpson,  ready  to  cry  with  delight,  fairly  scolds 
the  doctor  too,  and  remarks  generally  that  she 
doesn't  like  "to  hear  folks  shout  till  they're  out 
of  the  woods" — that's  her  way,  and  she's  never 
yet  seen  any  reason  to  change  it. 


But  it  does  not  appear  that  in  this  case  the 
physician  has  shouted  too  soon.  Launce,  as  the 
days  go  by,  gets  gradually  stronger,  and  the 
youthful  face,  that  looked  so  like  a  mask  during 
those  awful  weeks,  has  begun,  worn  and  emaciat- 
ed as  it  is,  to  catch  the  tints  and  expression  of 
i  returning  health.  The  mental  lassitude,  the  dif- 
ficulty to  grasp  and  hold  thought  steadily,  pass- 
es too,  and  once  more  life  looks  warm  and  hope- 
ful, and  Launce  longs  to  be  busy  with  its  interests 
and  labors.  Mr.  Carstoe  comes  in  one  morning 
while  Launce  is  trying  his  strength  in  walking 
about,  and  wondering  how  long  it  will  be  before 
he  can  again  use  pencil  and  brush.  Mr.  Car- 
stoe has  letters  in  his  hand — the  letters  he  and 
Dan-ell  Vaughan  wrote  to  apprise  Launce  of 
his  uncle's  death.  The  agent  has  had  them  re- 
turned. 

"I  wanted  you  to  see,"  he  says,  finding  Launce 
able  to  talk  and  occupy  himself  a  little,  "that 
there  w»s  no  delay  on  your  cousin's  part  or 
mine." 

Launce  looks  at  the  address  upon  the  envel- 
opes, and  looks  at  the  wrinkled,  kindly  face  be- 
fore him.  If  there.were  some  reason  for  man- 
aging to  delay  these  letters,  Mr.  Carstoe  knows 
nothing  about  it — of  that  Launce  is  certain.  He 
reads  the  pages,  and  smiles  rather  scornfully  at 
the  possibility  of  his  accepting  a  legacy  left  him 
on  such  terms.  He  is  too  just  to  feel  angry  with 
his  cousin  on  that  score — at  least  Dan-ell  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  bequest  or  its  restrictions. 
His  letter,  too,  is  kind,  affectionate  even — just 
a  little  patronizing  perhaps,  but  at  this  Launce 
can  afford  to  be  amused. 

"  Have  you  heard  lately  from  Vanghan?"  he 
asks. 

"  Xot  very  lately ;  one  letter  in  answer  to  mine 
about  your  illness.  He  was  extremely  glad  you 
were  here  with  me." 

"It  has  been  a  lucky  thing  for  me  that  I  did 
reach  you  before  that  fever  came  on,"  Launce 
replies,  stretching  out  his  hand. 

Mr.  Carstoe  grows  shy  and  awkward  at  once. 
He  does  not  like  to  be  thanked,  and  seems  fairly 
ashamed  of  himself. 

"Well,  well,  you  are  going  on  famously  now," 
he  says. 

"Yes ;  I  shall  soon  be  able  to  get  away." 

"Dear  me;  yes,  of  course,"  observed  Mr. 
Carstoe  in  a  regretful  tone,  rubbing  his  nose  the 
while.  "Naturally;  but  you  must  not  hurry  too 
much.  Let  things  work  awhile ;  we  don't  want 
any  risk  of  getting  that  fever  back." 

"Upon  my  word,  although  I  have  been  such  a 
bother,  I  believe  you  and  that  good  Mrs.  Simp- 
son will  be  rather  sorry  to  have  me  go,"  says 
Launce,  laughing,  though  he  chokes  ;  for  he  is 
still  weak  enough  to  be  easily  touched  and  made 
childish. 

"  Sir,"  says  Mr.  Carstoe,  scowling  as  portent- 
ouslv  as  if  he  were  about  to  utter  some  awful 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


threat,  "  the  Lord  forbid  that  I  should  speak  for 
any  female,,  especially  one  as  capable  of  speaking 
for  herself  as  Mrs.  Simpson.  But  /  shall  be  sor- 
ry, and  so  will  she — I  can  take  it  on  myself  to 
say  so  much  for  her." 

"It  was  falling  among  good  Samaritans  in- 
deed," Launce  answers.  ''I  shall  be  sorry  to 
leave  you  both,  Mr.  Carstoe.  I  have  wasted  a 
great  deal  of  time  though.  I  want  to  be  up  and 
doing.  You  see  I  have  not  stumbled  over  sev- 
eral hundred  thousand  dollars,  and  must  make 
my  way  in  the  world." 

"Just  so,  just  so,"  observes  Mr.  Carstoe,  mus- 
ingly. "It  would  have  been  different  if  there 
had  been  time,  I  am  sure  of  that." 

' '  Perhaps  so ;  but  indeed  I  am  not  caring 
about  the  money.  Of  course  every  body  would 
like  to  be  rich  ;  but  I  have  my  profession,  and  I 
may  say,  without  vanitv,  that  I  have  not  done 
ill." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that ;  very  glad. " 

Mr.  Carstoe  is  remembering  the  impression 
Darrell  had  produced  on  his  mind  in  regard  to 
this  young  man,  and  decides  that  Vaughan  was 
mistaken  ntterly  in  his  estimate  of  Cromlin,  al- 
though usually  so  clear  and  correct  in  his  judg- 
ments. 

"I  don't  know  much  about  your  business — I 
suppose  that  is  not  the  proper  word ;  but  I  have 
enjoyed  looking  over  those  sketch-books  of  yours, 
and — and — so  has  Mrs.  Simpson."  Mr.  Carstoe 
finishes  his  sentence  with  this  jerking  mention  of 
Simpson  simply  because  he  is  shy  about  express- 
ing his  feelings.  "  Now  I  should  think — I  don't 
mean  to  offer  suggestions — but  being  here  among 
new  scenery  as  it  were — mightn't  you,  for  exam- 
ple, do  something  among  our  mountains,  and  so 
on,  a  little?" 

"  I  should  be  glad  of  the  chance ;  but  you  see 
I  am  anxious  to  go  back  to  Europe — I  left  very 
suddenly."  Lnunce  feels  himself  coloring,  and 
hastens  to  add — "Some  time  I  shall  hope  to 
come  again  to  California  and  see  it  thoroughly." 

Mr.  Carstoe  is  thinking  of  the  codicil,  and, 
slow  man  though  he  is,  has  a  perception  that 
Miss  Crauford  is  in  the  young  man's  mind ;  it 
is  Miss  Crauford,  not  the  money — somehow  Mr. 
Carstoe  is  certain  of  that. 

"Just  so,  just  so,"  he  observes,  running  his 
hands  through  his  short  hair  till  it  stands  up 
like  a  gray  iron  netting  all  over  his  head. 

"Now  if  you  are  at  leisure  I  want  to  have  a 
little  talk,''  Launce  says.  "  Would  it  bore  you 
to  go  over  the  conversation  we  had  the  night  of 
my  arrival?  I  get  it  confused  when  I  try  to 
think.  I  believe  I  must  have  been  ill  even  then, 
though  I  recollect  our  visit  to  the  prison." 

It  is  all  made  clear  to  Launce  again — all  ex- 
cept that  impenetrable  mystery  which  shrouds- 
the  evil  deed  his  uncle  so  long  believed  him  to 
have  committed :  there  is  no  light  to  be  thrown 
on  that. 


"Thank  God,  at  least  he  lived  to  know  I  was 
innocent!"  Launce  says.  " But  Mr.  Sandford's 
letter  does  not  in  the  least  clear  up  the  matter." 

"All  the  papers  your  uncle  left  are  in  that 
cabinet,"  Mr.  Carstoe  observes,  pointing  to  a 
massive,  ancient  piece  of  furniture  at  the  end  of 
the  room.  "You  may  like  to  look  over  them 
some  time ;  I  will  get  the  keys  and  leave  them 
with  yon.  I  know  your  cousin  would  like  to 
have  you — he  and  I  searched  them  together. 
When  you  see  Mr.  Dan-ell  you  will  find  him  pre- 
pared to  be  friendly  and  considerate." 

Launce  glances  at  the  patronizing  letter,  and 
smiles  again.  Catching  that  smile,  Mr.  Carstoe 
wonders  if  Cromlin  feels  a  certain  bitterness  to- 
ward Vaughan  on  account  of  his  good-fortune. 
It  would  be  natural,  he  thinks,  if  it  were  so,  but 
not  in  keeping  with  the  idea  he  has  gained  of 
the  young  man's  character.  He  thinks,  too, 
what  a  pity  it  would  be  if  enmity  should  grow 
up  between  the  two,  and  would  gladly  do  or  say 
something  to  remove  any  angry  feelings  from 
Launce's  mind. 

"Very  kindly  in  all  ways  your  cousin  spoke 
of  you,"  he  continues  after  a  pause.  "It  seems 
hard,  it  really  does,  that  your  uncle  did  not  live 
to  make  those  changes  in  his  will  which  I  feel 
confident  he  intended." 

"That  he  wanted  to  do  it  is  enough  for  me," 
interrupts  Launce,  his  face  clearing.  "  I  am  not 
grudging  Darrell  his  luck,  Mr.  Carstoe ;  don't 
think  that." 

"I  am  sure  you  are  not !" 

"  You  remain  agent  of  all  the  property,  I  be- 
lieve you  told  me,"  Launce  says. 

"Yes;  your  cousin's  conduct  has  been  most 
generous  to  me.  I  thought  when  I  met  with  the 
last  loss — the  jewels,  you  remember — that  there 
was  nothing  before  me  but  worse  drudgery  than 
that  of  the  past.  His  liberal  offers  not  only 
make  me  comfortable,  but  will  enable  me  to  lay 
by  a  fair  competency  for  my  old  age — something 
more,  if  property  in  this  region  continues  to  in- 
crease in  value  as  it  has  done  for  the  last  ten 
years." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it ;  very  glad.  I  am  sure  you 
deserve  success." 

"You  are  very  good  to  say  so,  Mr.  Cromlin. 
At  least  I  have  worked  and  tried  honestly ;  I 
can  affirm  so  much  in  my  own  behalf.  I  could 
not,  however,  have  hoped  for  such  advantages  as 
Mr.  Vaughan  has  given  me." 

"  A  good  salary — " 

"More  than  that  —  percentages  upon  lands 
that  I  sell  or  rent,  and  other  means  of  saving. 
Had  I  been  a  relative  instead  of  his  uncle's  man 
of  business  he  could  not  have  dealt  more  gener- 
ously." 

It  is  new  in  Launce's  experience  of  his  cousin 
to  find  him  thinking  of  any  body  besides  him- 
self. But  he  does  not  say  this :  his  conscience 
suggests  that  perhaps  he  wrongs  Darrell — has> 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR, 


without  knowing  it,  cherished  harsh  thoughts 
and  suspicions  in  regard  to  him.  Launce  has 
no  mind  to  be  on  bad  terms  even  in  thought 
with  his  relative.  Probably  the  course  of  their 
lives  will  not  often  run  parallel,  but  Darrell  is 
almost  the  only  relation  he  has  in  the  world,  and 
there  shall  be  no  ill-feeling  on  his  side. 

Mr.  Carstoe  disturbs  his  meditations  by  utter- 
ing aloud  and  abruptly  those  to  which  his  own 
thoughts  have  wandered. 

"There  is  another  matter,  Mr.  Cromlin,  that 
we  may  as  well  arrange  now." 

"  What  is  that  ?" 

"About  the  ten  thousand  dollars." 

"Well,  what  about  it?"  Launce  speaks 
quickly,  and  sits  up  with  sudden  erectness,  and 
a,  brighter  light  in  his  eyes. 

"It  can  be  paid  you  at  any  time.  Your 
cousin  mentions  in  his  letter  to  you  that  you 
have  only  to  apply  to  me — he  had  made  all  the 
necessary  arrangements  for  me  to — " 

"  Excuse  me,"  interrupts  Launce,  "  we  need 
not  go  into  that  matter,  Mr.  Carstoe.  I  have  no 
intention  of  touching  the  money." 

"Now  really,  on  reflection,  is  it  wise?  Par- 
don my  seeming  to — " 

"  I  understand  ;  you  are  very  kind,  and  I 
thank  you.  But  there  is  nothing  to  be  said, 
Mr.  Carstoe.  I  do  not  want  Vaughan's  money, 
and  I  shall  not  take  it. " 

"But  it  would  be  a  gift  from  your  late  uncle." 

"No ;  it  would  be  DarreH's  bounty  that  gave 
it.  I  could  not  take  it,  and  there  is  an  end.  If 
my  uncle  had  lived  to  change  matters,  that  would 
have  been  different.  I  can  not  accept  any  thing 
left  me  in  that  way.  The  business  does  not 
even  admit  of  discussion." 

"Well,  you  must  be  the  judge,  I  suppose," 
sighs  Carstoe. 

"  Yes ;  it  is  an  affair  of  feeling,  perhaps.  Do 
believe  that  I  meant  what  I  said  when  I  told  you 
I  did  not  grudge  Darrell  his  fortune.  If  it  were 
mine,  I  would  give  the  whole  just  to  clear  up 
that  dark  business.  I  mean  to  find  out  by  what 
means  my  uncle  was  so  grossly  deceived  in  re- 
gard to  me." 

' '  But  that  is  of  no  consequence  now.  Your 
uncle  was  convinced.  His  letter  to  you — what 
he  said  to  me — proves  it." 

"  Yes ;  and  it  is  a  great  comfort.  Let  the 
money  go ;  I  shall  be  able  to  earn  all  I  need. 
But  it  is  horrible  to  think  that  some  wicked  plot 
separated  me  so  long  from  him ;  that  is  what 
hurts !  I  loved  him  better  than  I  ever  loved  any 
body ;  and  to  remember  all  these  years,  when  he 
was  in  failing  health,  that  I  could  not  be  with 
him — that — " 

Launce  breaks  off,  and  turns  his  head.  Mr. 
Carstoe  is  afraid  that  agitation  may  do  him  harm, 
and  wants  to  get  his  thoughts  away  from  such 
painful  meditations.  He  thinks  what  a  fine  thing 
it  would  be  for  Launce  if  he  could  only  win  Miss 


Crauford  and  the  two  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand dollars,  for  Mr.  Carstoe  has  struggled  hard 
enough  to  know  what  money  is  worth. 

"I — you — well,  as  you  do  me  the  honor  to  talk 
about  your  affairs,  would  it  be  a  liberty  if — " 

"  No  liberty,  whatever  it  may  be ;  go  on, 
Carstoe,"  says  Launce,  thinking  how  little  one 
would  expect  to  find  so  much  delicacy  and  kind 
feeling  as  he  has  learned  exists  under  that  awk- 
ward, grim  exterior. 

"  Only  that  I  am  sure  your  uncle's  wishes 
would  have  weight — now  it  seems  from  the  codi- 
cil that  he  desired  you  to  try  your  chance — in 
short,  did  you  ever  happen  to  meet  the  young 
lady,  Mr.  Cromlin  ?" 

Launce's  thoughts  have  gone  back  to  that 
brief  meeting.  He  seems  to  see  the  beautiful 
face  lying  pale  and  helpless  on  his  shoulder.  His 
cheeks  wear  a  tinge  of  color,  and  his  eyes  soften 
as  he  answers — "I  saw  Miss  Crauford  once;  I 
am  not  acquainted  with  her." 

Mr.  Carstoe  looks  the  other  way,  and  rubs  his 
hands  softly  together.  He  does  not  know  much 
about  romances,  but  it  seems  to  him  that  he  has 
stumbled  on  a  sort  of  idyl  or  poem,  and  he  de- 
lights in  it,  little  accustomed  as  he  is  to  exercise 
his  imagination.  Launce  perceives  this ;  smiles, 
but  not  scornfully,  at  so  odd  a  corner  in  this  cold, 
legal  mind,  and,  partly  to  please  Mr.  Carstoe, 
partly  to  gratify  himself,  he  relates  the  incidents 
of  that  one  meeting  with  Miss  Crauford.  He 
does  not  mention  those  after-dreams  which  have 
haunted  him  so  persistently.  Launce  is  not 
given  to  confidences.  Mr.  Carstoe  listens  at- 
tentively, and  enjoys  the  story,  and,  in  his  silent 
fashion,  reads  Launce's  face,  and,  middle-aged 
and  toil-worn  as  he  is,  can  construe  its  language 
as  plainly  as  if  the  young  man  had  put  his  pretty 
fancies  into  words. 

"  I  gathered  from  what  your  cousin  said, 
though  I  could  not  tell  how,"  observes  Mr.  Car- 
stoe, "that  he  had  no  mind  to  occupy  himself 
with  the  possible  results  of  the  codicil ;  that,  in 
fact,  he  had  interests  of  a — a  tender  nature  else- 
where." 

Mr.  Carstoe  is  almost  as  shy  about  pronounc- 
ing such  words  as  an  old  maid  would  have  been, 
in  spite  of  his  beard  and  his  years. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  DarreH's  affairs," 
Launce  replies ;  and  Mr.  Carstoe  feels  that  the 
subject  is  done  with.  But  he  would  like  exceed- 
ingly to  know  how  Miss  Crauford  looks,  for  the 
life  of  him  he  could  not  tell  why.  Mr.  Carstoe 
has  not  read  a  novel  in  thirty  years — probably 
not  more  than  three  before  that,  say  "  The  Chil- 
dren of  the  Abbey"  and  "Charlotte  Temple" 
among  them — but  he  certainly  has  a  latent  taste 
for  romance  all  the  same. 

"A  bachelor's  life  is  a  lonely  one,"  he  says, 
making  an  attack  on  that  unfortunate  nos&of  his. 
"  I  think  Mr.  Vaughan  found  it  so.  I  gathered, 
too,  from  what  be  told  me  Just  before  his  last  ill- 


7G 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


ness,  that  at  one  time  he  had  been  attached  to 
this  young  lady's  mother." 

Launee  is  interested,  but  Mr.  Carstoe  has  not 
much  to  tell,  though  Launce's  youthful  fancy 
has  no  difficulty  in  clothing  the  bare  skeleton  in 
glowing  colors. 

"There  is  a  miniature  in  the  cabinet,  too," 
says  Mr.  Carstoe.  "  I  have  an  idea  it  was  the 
portrait  of  Mrs.  Crauford. " 

Launee  is  eager  to  see  it ;  so  Mr.  Carstoe  gets 
the  keys  and  opens  the  cabinet.  Launee  sits 
still  in  his  chair;  somehow  he  can  not  find  cour- 
age yet  to  look  in  the  receptacle  filled  with  me- 
mentos of  his  dead  uncle.  Mr.  Carstoe  returns 
with  a  small  velvet  case  in  his  hand,  and  gives 
it  to  Launee. 

A  painting  on  ivory  of  a  beautiful  girl-face — 
the  very  face  he  had  once,  for  a  few  moments, 
studied  so  eagerly  ;  only  then  the  eyes  were 
closed,  and  now  they  regard  him  with  a  sweet 
gravity.  A  name  is  written  in  pencil  on  the  satin 
lining — Laura  Marlow.  Launee  can  not  remem- 
ber how  he  knows,  but  he  does,  that  this  was  the 
maiden  name  of  Mr.  Crauford's  wife.  He  gazes 
at  the  portrait  for  some  minutes  in  silence,  and 
Mr.  Carstoe  gazes  silently  at  him.  As  Launee 
looks  up,  he  meets  the  other's  glance,  and  both 
are  slightly  confused.  Mr.  Carstoe  fears  that  he 
has  been  indiscreet,  and  Launee  wonders  if  the 
vague,  sweet  fancies  in  his  heart  are  visible  upon 
his  countenance. 

"It  would  make  a  fine  study  for  a  picture," 
Launee  says,  carelessly  laying  the  miniature  on 
the  table.  "  I  should  really  like  to  keep  it,  but 
I  suppose  it  is  my  cousin's  property  now. " 

"You  could  give  it  to  him  when  you  meet; 
there  could  be  no  impropriety  certainly  in  your 
taking  it,"  replies  the  other. 

Launee  suggests  no  further  scruples ;  he  puts 
the  case  quickly  into  his  pocket,  with  a  keen 
pleasure  in  the  possession  of  that  treasure,  which 
he  half  feels  to  be  folly,  yet  would  not  check  if 
he  were  able. 

Now  Mr.  Carstoe  is  obliged  to  go  into  the 
town,  and  leave  Launee \to  his  own  devices  for 
the  day.  The  hours  do  not  drag :  Lannce  can 
read  a  little,  sleep  a  little ;  partake  of  the  savory 
messes  Simpson  the  rigid  serves  up  to  tempt  his 
palate,  and  dream  a  great  deal,  though  in  a  vague 
fashion,  of  the  possible  future  which  may  meet 
him  beyond  the  seas.  He  shall  soon  be  able 
now  to  undertake  the  voyage — very  soon.  It  is 
odd,  but  among  those  delicious  dreams,  wherein 
Kliznheth  Crauford's  face  makes  the  brightest 
radiance,  slight  thoughts  of  Darrell  or  his  possi- 
ble plans  intrude. 

The  day  has  gone  on  to  afternoon.  Launee, 
in  walking  about  the  room,  stops  for  an  instant 
near  the  cabinet.  He  perceives  that  Mr.Carstoe 
has  left  the  key  in  the  lock — probably  that,  if 
so  inclined,  Launee  may  have  an  opportunity  to 
look  over  his  uncle's  papers. 


The  young  man  sits  down  before  the  cabinet, 
opens  the  portion  arranged  as  a  desk,  pulls  out 
drawer  after  drawer,  and  examines  the  papers 
tied  up  in  orderly  packages.  There  is  nothing 
of  much  importance,  nothing  of  mystery  or  ro- 
mance ;  yet  he  touches  every  thing  tenderly,  and 
is  moved  and  softened  as  memory  after  memory 
comes  back  of  that  dead  man  whom  he  so  fond- 
ly loved.  In  one  compartment  he  finds  letters 
written  by  himself — letters  labeled  in  his  uncle's 
hand,  "From  my  boy."  These  have  been  pre- 
served, even  through  those  dark  years  of  suspi- 
cion and  anger.  Launee  is  young  enough  to 
feel  his  eyelids  grow  moist,  and  man  enough  to 
be  proud  of  the  weakness.  He  looks  over  the 
letters — several  written  when  he  was  a  mere  boy, 
others  not  long  before  the  break  between  him 
and  his  relative.  There  are  not  many  of  them ; 
just  a  few  retained,  as  if,  even  in  the  height  of 
his  anger,  the  old  man  had  not  been  able  to  de- 
prive himself  of  reminiscences  of  what  he  once 
believed  the  youth  actually  to  be. 

Nothing  to  bear  upon  the  strongest  thought 
in  his  mind,  however.  Mr.  Carstoe  was  right. 
Neither  in  pocket  -  books,  notes,  nor  papers  is 
there  the  slightest  allusion  to  that  dark  mystery. 
Probably  in  this  life  no  light  will  ever  be  thrown 
upon  it.  What  good  could  disclosure  serve  now? 
If  he  might  know  the  exact  means  by  which  he 
had  suffered  that  injury,  the  very  hand  which 
wrought  it, what  purpose  could  it  further  ?  There 
is  no  desire  or  idea  of  retribution  or  vengeance 
in  Launce's  mind ;  for  the  world  he  would  not 
burden  his  soul  with  such  a  weight. 

He  lingers  for  a  long  time  over  the  relics  in 
the  cabinet;  commonplace  ones  enough,  but  sa- 
cred to  him  from  the  affection  he  bore  the  dead 
man.  He  begins  at  length  slowly  to  lay  the  pa- 
pers back  in  their  place,  and  to  close  the  drawers 
and  compartments. 

One  of  the  inner  drawers  does  not  shut  en- 
tirely. Launee  struggles  with  it  somewhat — not 
that  it  is  of  any  consequence,  as  it  does  not  in- 
terfere with  the  closing  of  the  portion  arranged 
as  a  writing-desk,  inside  which  it  is  situated. 
At  another  time  he  would  not  have  noticed — he 
might  have  examined  the  cabinet  often  without 
doing  so — but  in  his  softened  mood  he  regarded 
with  almost  morbid  tenderness  every  thing  his 
uncle's  hand  had  touched  so  near  the  last  con- 
scious hours  of  his  life. 

The  drawer  will  not  shut,  so  he  tries  to  pull  it 
out,  that  he  may  discover  the  reason.  But  the 
drawer  is  no  more  inclined  to  come  out  than 
to  go  in  —  an  obstinate,  pig-headed  drawer  as 
ever  an  old  carved  cabinet  owned  in  its  interior. 
Launee  tugs  with  such  strength  as  he  possesses, 
and  the  drawer  squeaks  in  querulous  resentment, 
but  is  at  length  obliged  to  yield.  It  flics  out 
with  such  force  that  Launee  in  his  still  weak 
state  is  fairly  thrown  backward  in  his  chair. 

lie  sees  now  what  held  the  drawer — the  cover 


ME.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


77 


of  a  book,  the  leaves  hanging  down  behind  out 
of  sight.  Launce  pulls  the  volume  forth  and 
looks  at  it.  A  thin  blank -book,  with  pages  of 
writing  here  and  there — a  journal,  broken  and 
disconnected,  kept  by  his  uncle  during  the  last 
months  of  his  life — one  little  entry  on  the  very 
day  of  his  fatal  seizure. 

Launce  does  not  clearly  understand,  he  re- 
treats in  horror  from  the  suspicions  which  strike 
his  mind.  He  does  not  want  them  cleared  up ! 
If  Milady  were  here  before  him,  ready  to  an- 
swer any  questions  he  could  ask,  Launce  feels 
that  he  should  fly  from  her  presence.  Oh,  let 
the  secret  rest ! 


CHAPTER  XV. 
PLATO'S  DISCIPLE. 

MR.CRACFOKD  fell  ill.  For  years  he  had  con- 
sidered himself  an  invalid,  constantly  prophesy- 
ing untold  suffering  and  speedy  death  as  his  por- 
tion ;  but  hitherto  the  former  had  refused  to  have 
much  to  do  with  him,  and  the  latter  showed  no 
inclination  to  shorten  his  mortal  span.  Now 
among  the  soft  Italian  spring  days  Mr.  Crauford 
caught  a  low  fever.  At  first  the  malady  prom- 
ised to  be  of  little  consequence,  not  grave  enough 
to  alarm  even  his  daughter,  accustomed  to  see 
him  take  to  his  bed  on  the  slightest  provocation. 
Hut  the  days  went  on — grew  into  a  fortnight. 
Elizabeth  became  very  anxious,  and  the  doctors 
were  forced  to  acknowledge  that  the  disease 
proved  more  deeply  seated  and  obstinate  than 
they  had  anticipated. 

One  never  can  predicate,  from  previous  knowl- 
edge of  any  human  being,  how  he  will  support 
an  illness  serious  enough  to  suggest  to  his  mind 
the  possibility  of  a  not  distant  departure  from 
this  mundane  sphere.  Mr.  Crauford  had  always 
been  the  most  nervous  and  captious  patient  that 
ever  tried  a  physician's  good  temper,  but  from 
the  beginning  of  this  attack  he  exhibited  a  for- 
titude which  caused  the  doctors,  previously  un- 
acquainted with  him,  to  regard  his  character  as 
one  of  unusual  force  and  self-control.  The  truth 
was,  Mr.  Crauford  had  seized  the  occasion  to  be- 
come a  hero  in  his  own  eyes.  I  suppose  at  the 
bottom  he  did  not  really  believe  himself  about  to 
die,  but  he  thought  he  believed  it,  and  his  inor- 
dinate vanity  and  craving  for  admiration,  added 
to  a  feeling  that  this  critical  state  rendered  him 
an  object  of  interest  and  importance,  caused  him 
to  enact  a  kind  of  ancient  stoicism  quite  wonder- 
ful to  witness. 

Vaughan  had  been  absent  on  one  of  the  little 
excursions  wherewith  he  diversified  the  quiet  of 
his  present  life ;  but  he  returned  as  soon  as  he 
heard  of  Mr. Crauford 's  illness.  He  trusted  that 
chance,  or  the  lucky  star  which  had  thus  far  ruled 
his  destiny,  would  bring  to  a  fortunate  conclusion 


this  period  of  suspense  fraught  with  such  danger- 
ous possibilities.  He  proved  the  kindest  of  friends 
to  Elizabeth  in  her  trouble,  and  the  most  patient 
of  nurses  to  the  sick  man.  Mr.  Crauford  was 
more  submissive  to  him  than  he  had  ever  been 
to  any  living  creature,  and  Elizabeth  quickly  ac- 
quired the  habit  of  leaning  upon  his  advice  and 
consolations,  reproaching  herself  for  not  having 
hitherto  esteemed  the  gentleness  of  his  nature  as 
it  deserved. 

Mr.  Crauford's  illness,  and  above  all  the  state 
of  high  mental  grandeur  into  which  he  saw  fit 
to  soar,  afforded  Vaughan  the  opportunity  that 
neither  his  craft  nor  good-fortune  had  been  able 
to  bring  near. 

He  strengthened  the  physicians  in  their  view 
of  the  sick  man's  temperament;  and  when  they 
admitted  that  the  disease  proved  more  serious 
than  they  had  expected,  though  still  perfectly 
hopeful  as  to  its  ultimate  results,  Vaughan  at 
once  opened  his  batteries.  They  were  grave 
interests  affecting  the  whole  fortune  of  this  gen- 
tleman's daughter,  which  ought  to  be  definitely 
arranged.  Mr.  Crauford  was,  as  they  saw,  a 
person  of  unusual  coolness  and  fortitude,  but  if 
later  he  became  enfeebled  in  mind  and  nerves, 
his  anxiety  would  go  far  toward  preventing  his 
recovery.  The  physicians  acknowledged  this, 
and  advised  Vaughan  to  encourage  Mr.  Crau- 
ford in  setting  straight  any  matter  important 
enough  to  cause  him  uneasiness.  There  cer- 
tainly was  a  great  lack  of  vitality.  While  an- 
ticipating his  recovery  from  this  attack,  they 
could  not  deny  that  a  future  illness  might  be 
less  successfully  combated,  and  at  his  age  it 
was  best  that  all  business  connected  with  his 
daughter's  well-being  should  be  arranged.  Of 
course  he  must  not  be  agitated ;  but  from  what 
they  could  judge  of  the  patient's  character,  Mr. 
Vaughan's  certainty  that  such  a  course  would 
be  the  surest  means  of  preserving  the  tranquillity 
of  spirit  so  necessary  seemed  to  them  correct. 

After  the  physicians  had  gone,  Darrell  sat 
meditating  until  disturbed  by  the  entrance  of 
Gervais  :  the  sick  man  desired  his  presence. 

Mr.  Crauford  was  very  Roman  indeed  this 
morning.  He  had  a  copy  of  Plato  lying  on  the 
bed-cover ;  he  could  see  his  face  in  the  mirror, 
and  he  fancied  that  he  must  look  very  much  as 
Cato  or  Cicero  did  when  stricken  by  disease,  and 
was  determined  to  render  these  closing  scenes 
of  his  earthly  pilgrimage  as  impressive  as  possi- 
ble An  under-current  of  thought  which  went 
on  in  his  mind  concerning  the  feasibility  of  a 
vovage  to  Greece  the  following  autumn,  might 
have  suggested  to  an  unprejudiced  person  a 
doubt  as  to  the  depth  of  his  belief  in  that  speedy 
departure  of  which,  for  days  past,  he  had  talked 
in  grand  phrases ;  but  Mr.  Crauford's  admiration 
of  his  own  mental  strength  was  disturbed  by  no 
such  humiliating  consciousness. 

He  would  have  liked  to  rise,  wrap  his  dressing- 


78 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


gown  about  him  in  toga-like  folds,  and  so  appear 
more  Ciceronian,  and  he  regretted  the  years  had 
not  left  him  bald,  that  after  his  decease  a  correct 
cast  might  be  taken  of  his  wonderful  head.  But 
he  was  too  weak  to  sit  up,  and  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  sacrifice  the  still  luxuriant  locks  of 
which  he  was  exceedingly  vain.  So  he  stretched 
one  hand  out  upon  the  copy  of  Plato,  and  ex- 
tended the  other  toward  Vaughan  as  he  entered, 
and  did  his  best  to  offer  the  appearance  of  an 
ancient  Consul  reposing  in  the  curule  chair. 

"What  I  want,"  said  Mr.  Crauford,  as  the 
visitor  seated  himself  by  the  bed,  "is  frankness. 
That  the  medical  men  have  come  to  a  decision 
in  regard  to  my  state  I  know — it  is  only  fitting 
that  I  should  be  made  acquainted  with  it." 

' '  I  think  so  myself, "  Vaughan  replied.  ' '  With 
ordinary  invalids  the  less  they  know  about  them- 
selves the  better ;  but  with  your  marvelous  firm- 
ness and  clear-sightedness,  it  would  be  simply 
an  insult  to  your  great  mental  powers  to  treat 
you  in  this  way. " 

These  words  were  as  honey  and  manna  to  the 
listener's  soul.  Kobody  had  ever  flattered  him 
so  outrageously,  and  in  consequence  he  believed 
that  next  to  himself  Vaughan  was  "the  most  re- 
markable personage  of  the  century  —  falling  a 
long  way  behind  his  own  rank  of  course,  but  still 
coming  next. 

"I  am  a  dying  man,  my  young  friend,"  said 
he;  "you  and  I  know  it — to  minds  like  ours 
the  thought  is  free  from  those  terrors  which 
cause  weaker  souls  to  shrink." 

"At  least  I  fear  that  you  are  very,  very  ill," 
Vaughan  replied,  gently. 

Mr.  Crauford  had  elevated  Plato  in  his  hand 
while  uttering  that  fine  sentiment,  but  at  Dar- 
rell's  response  he  let  the  heathen  philosopher  fall 
with  a  crash. 

"  Kh — what !  Have  the  doctors — they  don't 
think  — "  he  began  more  eagerly  than  was  in 
keeping  with  his  assumption  of  the  Ciceronian 
style. 

"They  are  hopeful — confident  of  the  favor- 
able result  finally,"  Vaughan  hastened  to  add. 

Mr.  Crauford  recovered  his  dignified  composure, 
and  signed  Vaughan  to  pick  up  the  heathen. 

"Plato  grows  too  heavy  for  my  frail  hands," 
he  said,  with  a  self-compassionate  smile.  "My 
young  friend,  the  doctors  deceive  themselves,  or 
they  deem  it  wise  to  deceive  me — not  easy,  not 
easy  to  do." 

Vaughan  paid  a  neat  tribute  of  admiration  to 
his  perspicacity,  and  noble  powers  in  general, 
then  continued — 

'•While  differing  from  your  opinion  of  your 
state,  I  hold  with  our  great  man  yonder" — 
pointing  to  Plato,  as  if  he  made  a  third  in  the 
interview — "  that  it  is  always  a  proof  of  wisdom 
to  have  one's  worldly  affairs  as  carefully  ar- 
ranged as  if  one  expected  to  set  out  immediate- 
ly upon  that  journey  into  the  unknown." 


"  The  very  thing  of  which  I  wished  to  speak," 
Mr.  Crauford  said.  He  had  not  thought  of 
speaking  of  any  thing  of  that  nature,  but  he  now 
believed  it  was  with  some  such  purpose  he  had 
sent  for  the  young  man.  He  tried  to  think  of 
any  affair  of  importance  which  ought  to  be  ai'- 
ranged,  but  his  money  matters  were  all  in  perfect 
order ;  so  the  only  thing  which  suggested  itself 
was  in  regard  to  those  masses  of  fragments  he 
fondly  believed  poems.  He  seized  with  avidity 
upon  this  new  idea. 

"I  leave  my  work  unfinished,"  he  pursued ; 
"  but  there  is  much  which  in  careful  hands 
might  be  given  to  the  world.  That  must  be 
your  duty,  Vaughan." 

Darrell  laughed  internally  at  the  idea  of  his 
ever  meddling  with  those  chaotic  heaps  of  weak 
rhymes  and  stolen  fancies,  as  he  replied — 

"  If  it  were  to  prove  necessary,  of  course  the 
task  would  be  my  delight ;  but,  my  dear  sir,  you 
will  live  to  do  it  yourself." 

Mr.  Crauford  shook  his  head  at  the  possi- 
bility, looking  rather  puzzled  to  discover  what 
important  business  could  still  remain,  as  it 
was  evidently  not  of  the  manuscripts  he  had 
been  thinking.  Something  urgent  had  been 
in  his  mind  since  he  had  sent  for  Vaughan  to 
speak  of  it;  but  what?  Darrell  saw  his  per- 
plexity, and  was  prepared  to  clear  atfay  the 
mists. 

"That  part  in  any  case  we  may  consider  set- 
tled," he  said  ;  "but  I  know  what  from  the  first 
has  disturbed  you  —  the  thought  of  your  daugh- 
ter." 

"Yes,  yes,"  Mr.  Crauford  answered,  im- 
mensely relieved  to  find  out  what  care  had  op- 
pressed him.  Of  course  it  was  about  Elizabeth 
he  had  intended  to  speak ;  but  what  had  he 
meant  to  say  ?  "  A  father's  heart,  Vanghan ;  a 
father's  heart!'' 

"I  can  judge  a  little  from  my  own — a  lover's 
feelings,"  Vaughan  said,  laying  his  hand  on  the 
sick  man's,  while  his  face  softened  with  that  smile 
which  made  it  seem  so  earnest  and  noble.  "At 
least  she  would  have  always  one  faithful  affec- 
tion in  which  to  trust.  I  know  you  were  think- 
ing that  too." 

Of  course.  Still  Mr.  Crauford  was  no  nearer 
the  light. 

"I  think  I  have  read  clearly  what  has  been 
in  your  mind,"  continued  Vaughan ;  "my  love 
for  Elizabeth,  my  veneration  for  you,  make  me 
clear-sighted.  But  why  should  you  leave  your- 
self room  for  anxiety  ?  I  myself  believe  that,  ill 
as  you  nre,  you  will  recover — " 

"No!"  interrupted  Mr.  Crauford;  "no!"  And 
he  held  up  Plato  again,  as  if  the  Grecian's  spirit 
had  revealed  the  future  to  his  eyes. 

"Then,  believing  that,  why,  as  I  said,  leave 
room  for  care?"  said  Darrell.  "I  know  you 
have  been  asking  yourself  that  question  also. 
Will  you  let  me  try  to  answer?'' 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


70 


"Try;  I  will  listen,"  replied  Mr.  Cranford, 
glad  so  easily  to  find  out  what  interrogatory  he 
had  been  putting  to  his  soul. 

"You  both  believe  in  my  earnest  affection," 
Vaughan  went  on.  "  Elizabeth's  answer  to  my 
plea  was  virtually  a  consent — she  only  asked  for 
time.  In  urging  her  to  marry  me  at  once — as  I 
think  has  suggested  itself  to  you  in  viewing  this 
matter  from  every  side,  after  your  habit — you 
leave  your  mind  completely  at  rest — " 

Mr.  Crauford  broke  in  with  some  hasty  excla- 
mation. He  seized  on  this  new  excitement  as 
joyfully  as  he  had  accepted  his  role  of  Stoic. 
There  was  no  doubt  whatever  in  his  mind  that 
he  had  been  pondering  the  very  thing  Vaughan 
put  into  words.  Mr.  Crauford's  inner  vision 
contemplated  a  hurried  picture  of  a  marriage  by 
a  death-bed,  himself,  Ciceronian  to  the  last,  be- 
stowing his  farewell  blessing  on  his  child  and  her 
new-made  husband — something  white  and  grand 
floating  off  over  their  heads  directly  after  —  his 
departing  soul  probably.  He  was  charmed  with 
the  tableau ;  it  was  very  real,  and  yet  perfectly 
destitute  of  painful  reality.  It  is  not  easy  to  ex- 
plain the  jumble  his  faculties  made  of  the  bus- 
iness. He  contemplated  doing  a  fine  death- 
scene,  but  for  all  that,  he  did  not  see  himself 
actually  dead  and  cold.  He  could  consider  a 
voyage  to  Athens  in  the  same  breath ;  but  he 
was  dying,  he  knew  he  believed  that.  Let  him 
bless  his  daughter  and  her  husband  before  he 
soared  off  to  join  Plato  and  other  kindred  nat- 
ures in  a  higher  sphere. 

The  two  conversed  for  a  long  time.  When 
Vaughan  ceased  talking  there  was  no  mistiness 
nor  uncertainty  in  Mr.  Crauford's  mind.  He 
was  perfectly  satisfied  that  since  the  beginning 
of  his  illness  he  had  been  brooding  these  weighty 
matters ;  that  he  had  sent  for  Darrell  to  unfold 
his  wishes  ;  that  every  suggestion  had  come  from 
himself;  that  the  young  man's  share  consisted 
simply  in  agreeing  to  his  decision. 

He  wanted  Elizabeth  summoned  ;  he  was  wild 
to  have  his  project  carried  into  effect.  Vaughan 
liimself  hurried  in  search  of  her. 

"I  have  been  waiting  for  you  ever  since  the 
doctors  went  away,"  she  began.  "  Gervais  said 
you  were  with  my  father.  I  know  it  annoys 
him  sometimes  if  one  interrupts  a  conversation, 
so  I  stayed  here.  Tell  me  what  the  physicians 
say  this  morning." 

She  was  very  anxious,  very  beautiful  in  her 
anxiety ;  it  was  a  great  comfort  to  his  aesthetic 
sense  that  she  did  not  make  her  nose  red,  nor  sniff, 
nor  display  trouble  in  a  disagreeable  manner. 

He  did  not  spare  her.  He  seemed  to  be  break- 
ing the  verdict  gently;  but  he  let  her  believe 
that  the  doctors  were  very  doubtful  how  the  ill- 
ness might  end.  He  liked  to  console  her  in  her 
grief;  she  was  picturesque  and  stately  still, 
troubled  and  shocked  as  she  was,  so  he  enjoyed 
the  interview.  He  proved  so  tender,  so  kind, 


how  could  she  help  trusting  him — help  believing 
that  he  was  noble,  and  earnest,  and  true  as  some 
chivalrous  Paladin  of  old  ? 

But  her  father  wanted  her;  she  must  wipe 
away  her  tears,  and  be  composed  and  brave. 
Vaughan  warned  her  that,  above  all  things,  per- 
fect tranquillity  must  be  preserved  in  his  pres- 
ence— no  wish  or  idea  thwarted.  She  should  hear 
the  truth !  It  would  be  useless  to  question  the 
doctors  —  even  if  the  sick  man  grew  worse,  they 
would  consider  it  a  duty  to  deceive  her ;  but  from 
her  friend  she  might  rest  assured  she  would 
meet  entire  frankness,  however  painful  the  effort. 

She  was  so  utterly  alone  in  the  world,  this 
visionary,  enthusiastic  creature;  under  all  her 
dignity  and  pride  she  had  such  a  tender,  loving 
heart — she  so  craved  affection,  some  superior 
strength  upon  which  she  could  repose  in  com- 
plete confidence.  She  had  never  in  her  life  been 
thrown  into  such  intimate  companionship  with 
any  man — never  seen  one  who  comprehended  her 
dreams  and  aspirations — one  whose  own  plan  of 
life  was  so  marked  and  broad,  so  replete  with  no- 
ble aims  and  determinations. 

He  was  gentle  and  tender  too ;  the  softest 
woman  could  not  have  been  more  kind  and  sym- 
pathetic than  he  proved  in  her  affliction.  No 
wonder  she  clung  to  him — believed  in  him  whol- 
ly— felt  humiliated  in  her  own  esteem  that  at 
first  she  had  not  rated  his  goodness  so  highly  as 
it  deserved. 

She  went  away  to  her  father,  and  that  mod- 
ern version  of  the  antique  was  at  once  so  pathet- 
ic and  sublime  over  the  speedy  cessation  of  his 
mortal  sufferings,  that,  unnerved  by  sleepless 
nights  and  watchings,  more  than  ever  alarmed 
by  Vaughan's  apparent  fears,  Elizabeth  lost  the 
last  trace  of  courage,  or  even  ability  to  reason, 
and  almost  believed  that  her  father  was  positive- 
ly dying  before  her  eyes. 

He  managed  to  make  his  whole  meaning  clear 
— the  plan  which  he  was  convinced  he  had  un- 
folded to  Vaughan.  Elizabeth  was  too  weak  and 
shaken  for  any  exhibition  of  the  control  and  de- 
cision natural  to  her ;  she  could  only  cry  out,  as 
the  weakest  girl  might  have  done — 

"I  can  not! — I  can  not!  It  is  too  sudden! 
— I  can  not!" 

Then  Mr.  Crauford  rushed  into  a  violent  ex- 
citement, and  Elizabeth  remembered  Vaughan's 
warning — the  consequence  might  prove  fatal. 
She  could  only  tiy  to  soothe  him  by  loving 
words ;  but  he  was  as  obstinate  as  ever  in  his 
weak,  inconsequent  way,  and  got  speedily  back 
to  the  idea  which  had  thoroughly  taken  posses- 
sion of  his  mind. 

Elizabeth  could  not  deny -that  this  man  was 
more  to  her  than  any  other  had  ever  been ;  in- 
deed, these  last  days  had  almost  convinced  her 
that  she  loved  him ;  but  the  haste  was  abhor- 
rent to  her — the  idea  of  a  marriage  under  such 
circumstances  in  every  way  distasteful. 


80 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  EEIE. 


"I  could  not  (lie  in  peace  remembering  that 
I  left  my  child  helpless,  alone  in  the  world," 
Mr.  Crauford  said  over  and  over,  as  if  he  were 
about  to  leave  a  small  orphan  of  ten  years  pen- 
niless on  the  earth. 

Indeed,  Elizabeth  felt  desolate  enough,  but  she 
could  combat  this. 

"  If  it  were  to  happen — but  it  will  not — oh, 
it  will  not — I  should  not  be  alone ;  there  is  my 
Aunt  Janet— I  could  go  to  her." 

"Think  of  the  journey ;  and  Janet  is  an  old 
woman — an  impossible  old  woman,"  moaned 


utterance  which  she  comprehends ;  it  asks  the 
question  she  had  been  vainly  trying  to  answer 
during  her  troubled  meditation.  She  looks  up 
with  a  start,  trembling  at  the  light  in  his  eyes, 
the  eagerness  in  his  voice. 

"Do  not  be  afraid,"  he  says  sadly.  "Think 
of  me  only  as  your  best,  your  truest  friend." 

"  I  will — I  do,"  she  answers. 

"Will  you  listen  to  me?  Will  you  let  me 
tell  you  what  seems  to  me  right,  Elizabeth  ?" 

She  knows  that  his  wise  counsels  and  tender 
words  are  to  be  added  to  her  father's  persist- 


Mr.  Crauford. 
nobody  could! 


"  You  could  not  live  with  her —  I  ence.     She  knows  too — unable  to  decide  wheth- 


I  tell  you,  Elizabeth,  I  could 


not  rest  in  my  grave  to  leave  you  so ;  and  you 
care  for  Vaughan — you  would  have  married 
him  in  a  few  months ;  why  not  a  little  sooner, 
if  it  will  please  your  father  ?  I  shall  not  have 
many  more  favors  to  ask  at  your  hands." 

"Ah,  papa,  dear  papa,  don't  speak  like  that!" 

She  knelt  by  the  bed  and  tried  to  comfort 
him,  but  Mr.  Crauford  would  not  be  comforted ; 
lie  would  moan  and  shake,  and  forget  his  Roman 
firmness,  and  terrify  her  half  out  of  her  senses 
by  his  looks  and  conduct. 

That  night  Mr.  Crauford  was  worse.  Vaughan 
had  stayed  at  the  house,  and  as  Elizabeth  was 
completely  exhausted,  he  persuaded  her  to  go  to 
rest.  In  the  middle  of  the  night  the  sick  man 
was  seized  with  a  kind  of  nervous  spasm,  and 
.  wanted  his  daughter.  Barrel!  had  no  objection 
to  her  being  alarmed  by  his  appearance,  though 
perfectly  certain  the  ciisis  was  not  a  dangerous 
one. 

Poor  Elizabeth  could  only  feel  that  she  was 
to  blame.  Had  she  gratified  her  father  instead 
of  opposing  him,  the  attack  would  not  have 
taken  place.  She  felt  terribly  guilty  and  wick- 
ed, but  she  retained  composure  enough  to  go  on 
•f'doing  whatever  she  could,  so  white  and  ghastly 
that  a  heart  of  stone  might  have  pitied  her  de- 
spair ;  but  Vaughan  never  offered  a  word  of 
hope :  he  was  tender,  kind,  but  he  allowed  her 
to  see  that  he  was  sorely  alarmed. 

Toward  morning  the  crise  yielded  to  the  phy- 
sician's remedies.  Mr.  Crauford  slept,  and  was 
perhaps  no  worse  on  the  following  day,  though 
certainly  somewhat  weakened.  At  all  events, 
his  desire  to  urge  forward  the  marriage  was  as 
strong  as  ever ;  Vaughan  took  care  there  should 
l>e  no  falling  off  in  that  respect ;  and  having  all 
his  life  been  the  most  changeable  and  capricious 
of  men  on  every  subject,  great  or  small,  submit- 
ted to  his  decision,  it  was  wonderful  to  see  how 
DarreH's  influence  held  him  firm  here. 

Later  in  the  day  Vaughan  comes  into  the 
great  room  where  Elizabeth  sits  alone  in  the 
shadow — comes  so  softly  that  she  does  not  hear 
.   his  step — is  only  roused  from  her  confused  rev- 
erie by  his  voice  calling  softly — 
"Elizabeth,  Elizabeth!" 
There  is  a  tone  of  inquiry  in  the  passionate 


er  the  tumult  in .  her  soul  is  fear  or  some  softer 
emotion — that  circumstances,  or  fate,  are  too  po- 
tent for  her  will.  Indeed,  her  power  of  judging 
seems  gone  now  that  a  dread  of  clouding  her  fa- 
ther's last  earthly  days  is  added  to  the  balance 
against  her  unreasoning  hesitation.  He  must 
judge  for  her — this  hero,  this  brave,  earnest  man, 
who  has  shown  himself  as  gentle  and  loving  as 
he  is  strong. 

So  it  comes  about  that  one  evening,  weeks 
after  we  last  saw  Launce  Cromlin,  Mr.  Carstoe 
returns  home,  and  brings  the  latest  New  York 
papers  to  amuse  his  guest ;  for,  in  spite  of  his 
desire  to  be  gone,  Launce  is  still  a  prisoner. 
Some  slight  imprudence  or  exposure — perhaps 
some  mental  agitation,  which  the  doctor  has  not 
taken  into  account — caused  a  relapse,  from  which 
he  is  only  now  recovered. 

But  this  time  he  is  radically  better — quite 
strong,  in  fact ;  and  the  day  of  his  departure  is 
set,  sorely  to  the  chagrin  of  Mr.  Carstoe  and 
Simpson.  Indeed,  the  fiery-haired  is  utterly 
disconsolate  at  losing  her  occupation  of  the  last 
months,  and  visits  her  grief  so  heavily  on  the 
heads  of  all  about  that  Launce  laughingly  tells 
Mr.  Carstoe  he  will  be  obliged  to  advertise  for  a 
troublesome  invalid,  whom  Mrs.  Simpson  can 
spoil  and  tyrannize  over  to  her  heart's  content. 

While  the  agent  has  gone  away  to  consult 
that  despotic  female  sovereign  in  regard  to  some 
household  arrangement,  Launce  opens  the  news- 
papers, and  idly  turns  the  pages. 

He  comes  upon  a  gossiping  letter  from  an 
Italian  correspondent ;  and  as  any  thing  con- 
cerning Italy  always  possesses  a  charm,  he  reads 
on  and  on,  and  at  last  reads  an  account  of  a 
marriage  which  took  place  in  Pisa  the  very  day 
this  epistle  was  penned.  The  bride  mentioned  is 
Elizabeth  Crauford,  and  she  has  wedded  Launce's 
cousin,  Barrell  Vanghan. 

One  thing  and  another  detain  Mr.  Carstoe,  so 
that  it  is  deep  in  the  twilight  when  he  re-enters 
the  library.  Launce  sits  there  in  the  gloom,  his 
head  resting  on  his  hand,  his  eyes  gazing  ab- 
stractedly toward  the  western  sky,  along  which 
a  single  line  of  yellow  light  still  lingers. 

Twice  Mr.  Carstoe  speaks  before  the  young 
man  hears  ;  then  he  rouses  himself,  and  is  com- 
posed and  cheerful.  Before  they  part  for  the 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


81 


night  he  gives  his  companion  a  pleasurable  sur- 
prise. 

"You  will  think  me  a  very  capricious  fellow," 
he  says,  "but  I  have  changed  my  mind.  I  shall 
not  go  East  this  year.  I  have  decided  to  fol- 
low your  advice.  I  may  never  get  to  Califor- 
nia again,  so  I  shall  visit  the  wonderful  mount- 
ain scenery  before  I  return,  and  perhaps  paint 
a  picture  or  two.  I  have  been  idle  too  long. " 

Darrell  Vaughan  has  won  in  every  -way.  He 
has  won — whether  honestly  or  not  matters  little 
to  Launce.  What  does  matter,  is  the  loss  of 
the  beautiful  dream  which  has  been  with  him 
during  many  weary  months.  He  marvels  some- 
what at  his  own  weakness,  at  the  hold  which  so 
baseless  a  vision  has  taken  upon  his  soul,  but 
neither  astonishment  nor  indignation  at  his  own 
boyishness  changes  the  fact. 

The  truth  remains— Launce  has  lost  a  hope 
so  precious  and  fair,  that  life  looks  dull  indeed 
deprived  of  its  radiance. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

AFTER    TWO    TEARS. 

PAGES  of  pretty  poetry  have  been  written  upon 
the  misery  women  suffer  from  seeing  their  idols 
turn  into  common  clay.  The  poetry  is  nice  to 
read,  but  no  fate  can  be  more  galling,  more  re- 
plete with  daily  and  hourly  suffering,  than  that 
of  the  woman  who  has  such  an  experience  forced 
upon  her,  if  said  idol  chance  to  be  her  husband. 
The  worst  feature  in  the  case  is  that  there  re- 
mains no  tinge  of  romance,  no  aesthetic  glow 
which  would  at  least  fling  a  certain  dignity  about 
the  trouble.  Most  women  could  pardon  a  great 
crime  free  from  selfish  meanness,  or  have  the 
consolation  of  regarding  the  perpetrator  as  a  kind 
of  fallen  angel,  still  glorious  in  a  Lucifer-like  way 
at  least ;  but  what  flings  the  oracle  off  his  pedes- 
tal is  to  find  him  full  of  small  vices,  heartless,  re- 
gardless of  others — all  his  brilliant  theories  mere 
words,  his  whole  life  a  sham. 

Elizabeth  Crauford  had  been  two  years  a  wife 
— years  over  whose  details  I  must  pass  almost 
in  silence,  since,  slight  as  many  of  them  would 
seem,  I  should  need  my  whole  volume  to  chron- 
icle their  course. 

The  autumn  after  their  return  to  America 
Vaughan  received  a  nomination  for  Congress. 
The  contest  was  very  sharp,  and  he  encountered 
defeat — his  first  failure.  Just  after  that  he  was 
preparing  to  address  some  great  meeting.  The 
speech  would  require  much  care,  must  be  in  even- 
way  a  brilliant  effort.  Elizabeth  had  gone  one 
night  to  a  party  ;  Darrell  was  too  busy  to  spare 
the  time,  but  had  insisted  on  her  accepting  the 
invitation. 

It  was  very  late  when  she  returned  ;  Vaughan 
had  not  yet  come  up-stairs.  She  dismissed  her 


maid,  and  sat  for  a  while  waiting  his  appearance. 
Three  o'clock  struck  at  length ;  it  seemed  wrong 
for  him  thus  to  spend  the  whole  night  in  labor, 
as  he  had  not  been  well  for  several  days.  She 
was  afraid  of  annoying  him  by  intruding  into 
his  study,  still  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind 
to  go  to  bed  without  warning  him  of  the  hour. 
She  stole  down-stairs  in  her  dressing-gown,  and 
knocked  at  his  door.  There  was  no  answer. 
Thrice  she  knocked ;  then,  growing  almost  alarm- 
ed, turned  the  knob.  The  door  was  locked. 

He  might  have  fallen  asleep.  She  tried  to 
think  that ;  all  the  same,  she  could  not  subdue 
the  anxiety  which  troubled  her.  She  remem- 
bered a  staircase  leading  from  his  dressing-room 
to  the  study — a  staircase  reserved  entirely  for 
his  own  use — possibly  she  might  gain  admittance 
in  that  way.  She  hurried  back  up-stairs,  through 
a  sleeping-chamber,  into  this  apartment,  and  on 
down  the  stairs. 

The  fear  of  vexing  him — she  had  already 
learned  that  it  was  always  well  to  avoid  the  pos- 
sibility— caused  her  to  pause  even  when  she 
reached  the  lower  door.  She  knocked  several 
times ;  there  was  no  answer — no  sound.  She 
opened  the  door,  and  entered.  The  fire  had 
died  out  in  the  grate ;  the  room  felt  cold  and 
chill.  She  saw  Darrell  lying  back  in  his  easy- 
chair,  the  table  strewn  with  pages  of  manuscript. 

She  called  his  name.     No  response  followed. 

"Poor  fellow," was  her  thought,  "he  is  com- 
pletely worn  out !  I  must  awake  him  ;  I  am 
sure  he  will  not  be  vexed." 

She  went  up  to  him,  and  laid  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  He  did  not  stir.  She  shook  his  arm, 
calling  again.  He  might  have  been  dead  for 
any  show  of  life  he  evinced.  Now  she  looked 
closely  at  him  :  the  eyes  were  partially  open, 
blank,  unseeing ;  the  muscles  of  the  face  drawn 
and  rigid.  She  lifted  his  hand — it  was  cold  ;  as 
she  released  it  in  terror  the  arm  fell  back  supine 
and  nerveless.  She  was  thoroughly  frightened ; 
she  turned  to  ring  the  bell ;  she  must  awaken 
somebody — must  have  assistance.  As  she  moved, 
the  loose  sleeve  of  her  robe  swept  the  papers  upon 
the  floor ;  some  heavier  object  fell  too  with  a  dull, 
metallic  ring.  She  stooped  and  picked  up  a  little 
silver  box,  opened  it,  and  saw  a  mass  of  greenish 
substance,  which  she  recognized. 

Her  husband's  secret  was  clear  now.  She  had 
known  for  months  that  he  had  a  secret.  She 
understood  the  odd  manner  which  had  several 
times  puzzled  her — the  incoherent  conversation, 
the  strangeness  of  voice  and  look.  Vaughan 
sought  his  inspiration  in  hasheesh. 

Elizabeth  gathered  the  papers  together,  glano 
ing  over  them  as  she  did  so.  A  few  pages  of  a 
speech — a  brilliant  opening — after  that,  para- 
graphs more  hastily  written,  but  full  of  force ; 
then  sentences  unfinished  ;  then  mere  broken 
words.  There  lay  the  pen  on  his  knee :  it 
had  fallen  from  his  hand  as  he  sank  back  com- 


82 


MB.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


jiletely  overcome  by  the  effects  of  the  poisonous 
drug. 

Elizabeth  was  familiar  with  the  workings  of 
the  potion  :  she  comprehended  that  he  had  taken 
an  overdose,  and  that,  after  quickening  his  fac- 
ulties for  a  brief  space,  this  death-like  lethargy 
had  come  upon  him.  She  could  not  tell  if  he 
were  conscious  of  her  presence,  but  she  fancied 
not.  It  was  useless  to  attempt  to  rouse  him ; 
indeed,  it  might  be  unsafe. 

She  stood  there,  white  as  a  ghost,  and  looked 
down  at  him.  Across  the  pain  and  trouble  which 
disturbed  her  features  swept  an  expression  that 
was  almost  loathing  and  contempt.  In  these 
brief  instants  she  decided  upon  her  line  of  con- 
duct. Expostulation  would  be  useless — worse  ; 
it  would  form  an  element  of  actual  discord  and 
disunion. 

The  day  which  had  witnessed  Vatighan's  po- 
litical defeat  showed  his  wife  a  new  phase  of 
that  complex  character  she  was  studying  too 
rapidly  for  her  own  peace.  He  had,  for  the  first 
time,  given  free  rein  to  his  temper ;  twice  be- 
fore she  had  been  shocked  by  a  perception  of 
the  fierce  capabilities  hidden  under  that  polished 
exterior  ;  but  this  time  there  was  no  attempt  at 
self-restraint,  and  the  brunt  of  his  fury  fell  upon 
her.  Some  word  intended  to  be  kind  and  con- 
solatory— some  suggestion  which  piqued  his  self- 
love  or  obstinacy— out  burst  the  storm,  and  a  mad 
one  it  was. 

Without  a  word  Elizabeth  had  turned  and 
left  the  room,  but  the  one  look  of  haughty  scorn 
which  flashed  on  him  was  a  reproof  Darrell 
Vaughan  would  never  forget  nor  forgive.  When 
he  came  to  his  senses  he  was  able  to  put  by  for 
a  space  the  recollection  of  that  glance ;  but  it 
would  return.  As  yet  the  spell  of  her  beauty 
still  possessed  its  influence.  He  cared  for  her 
in  his  material,  passionate  fashion,  so  he  made 
his  peace.  Elizabeth  would  have  shrunk  from 
excuses  put  into  language,  would  have  disliked 
that  he  should  thus  humiliate  himself,  so  she  ac- 
cepted his  tacit  repentance  at  once. 

She  thought  of  all  this  now  as  she  stood  look- 
ing at  his  pale,  distorted  face,  from  which  the 
fire  and  energy  had  gone  out.  The  mask  had 
lifted  ;  the  real  man  was  there — coarse,  brutal, 
sensual — all  his  glorious  theories,  the  pretenses 
which  had  hitherto  ennobled  his  countenance  in 
her  eyes  as  they  had  done  his  life  in  her  esteem, 
gone  utterly. 

She  crept  away  to  her  chamber,  and  left  him 
there  alone.  She  would  keep  his  secret;  no  per- 
ception that  she  had  penetrated  it  should  come 
up  to  anger  or  disturb  him. 

Day  broke ;  the  chill,  gray  dawn  stole  in 
through  the  curtains  and  startled  her  like  some 
importunate  watcher  of  her  misery.  It  had  been 
.1  terrible  vigil :  a  communing  with  her  own  soul, 
a  study  of  the  future,  full  of  import  to  a  charac- 
ter like  Elizabeth's. 


At  last  she  heard  her  husband's  step  on  the 
stairs.  She  closed  the  door  into  his  dressing- 
room,  put  out  the  lights,  and  got  into  bed.  He 
had  the  habit  when  he  worked  or  came  home 
late  of  sleeping  in  a  chamber  the  other  side  of 
the  hall.  She  heard  him  enter  that  now. 

They  met  at  luncheon.  He  was  listless,  weak, 
and  miserable.  Labor  was  an  impossibility,  yet 
the  speech  must  be  finished ;  on  the  evening  cf 
the  following  day  it  was  to  be  delivered.  He 
had  sent  for  her  to  his  study  to  ask  some  ques- 
tion in  regard  to  a  matter  he  had  intrusted  to 
her  care.  His  petulance  and  nervousness  he 
was  quite  unable  to  conceal,  and  he  told  her 
frankly  that  he  found  himself  completely  upset 
and  his  work  not  half  done. 

"Perhaps  I  can  help  you,"  she  said.  "I  see 
you  have  copious  notes  there ;  at  least  I  might 
arrange  them  for  you  to  elaborate." 

He  hated  the  idea  of  receiving  such  assistance, 
but  the  position  was  a  critical  one.  Elizabeth 
sat  down  at  the  table,  and  toiled  over  the  frag- 
ments of  the  address.  She  not  only  put  them 
in  order,  but  she  elaborated  them  herself,  spend- 
ing the  whole  day  and  almost  the  whole  night 
over  the  address.  He  took  it  then,  and'  roused 
himself  to  read  and  alter.  In  truth,  he  delivered 
the  speech  as  she  wrote  it,  but  he  did  not  admit 
this,  and  he  almost  hated  her  that  he  was  com- 
pelled not  only  thus  to  recognize  her  powers,  but 
to  use  them  in  his  own  behalf. 

"When  they  had  been  married  a  year,  Mr.  Crau- 
ford  returned  from  Europe,  and  very  soon  after 
his  arrival  died  quite  suddenly.  To  the  last  the 
old  faith  in  his  son-in-law  remained  undisturbed. 
His  fortune  he  left  entirely  at  Vaughan's  disposal. 
Darrell  was  now  a  very -wealthy  man.  Only  an 
inconsiderable  portion  of  Elizabeth's  own  prop- 
erty had  been  secured  to  her ;  the  wedding  was 
too  hurried  and  Mr.  Crauford  too  indolent  to 
think  of  such  matters.  A  part  of  her  mother's 
fortune  descended  to  her  in  a  way  which  kept  it 
independent  of  the  man  she  married.  She  found 
herself  fettered  and  hampered.  Her  schemes  for 
doing  good  met  with  no  sympathy  from  Vaughan 
save  when  they  could  serve  to  cast  a  lustre  about 
him  and  redound  to  his  credit.  During  the  early 
days,  while  he  still  maintained  a  show  of  sympa- 
thy, excuses  and  reasons  were  offered.  At  length 
she  heard  plainly  that  she  was  going  out  of  her 
province ;  meddling  with  affairs  which  did  not 
belong  to  her ;  trying  for  notoriety  as  a  philan- 
thropist in  a  manner  he  deemed  unbecoming. 

This  taunt  was  a  hard  blow,  but  she  bore  it. 
I  do  not  mean  that  she  was  a  model  of  patience 
— she  often  rebelled,  flamed  into  anger — but  she 
shrank  from  contention  ;  harsh  words  hurt  her 
like  blows,  and  the  idea  of  quarreling  with  her 
husband  tilled  her  with  horror — any  submission 
'  was  better  than  that. 

Up  in  one  of  the  northern  counties  was  a  small 
estate,  which  had  been  a  part  of  Mrs.  Crauford's 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


83 


marriage-portion,  but  not  among  the  property 
she  owned  independent  of  her  husband.  It  was 
a  place  both  father  and  daughter  held  in  love  and 
reverence.  It  had  been  Mrs.  Crau ford's  favorite 
residence.  She  had  beautified  the  house,  embel- 
lished the  grounds,  spent  years  in  the  task.  She 
was  an  admirable  artist ;  the  walls  of  several  of 
the  rooms  were  wainscoted  with  wood,  and  the 
panels  painted  by  her  own  hands  in  landscape  and 
figures.  On  a  hill  at  the  back  of  the  grounds 
Mrs.  Crauford  was  buried :  they  made  the  hus- 
band's grave  beside  her. 

Twelve  months  after  Mr.  Crauford's  death  a 
new  railway  was  projected  which  would  pass  near 
this  country-seat.  The  company  offered  Vaugh- 
an  an  exorbitant  price  for  the  place.  A  cutting 
through  the  hill  where  the  graves  were  would 
lessen  almost  by  millions  the  expense  of  building 
the  road,  and  the  other  lands  were  admirably 
situated  for  the  site  of  certain  factories  they  pro- 
posed to  erect. 

Darrell  had  gradually  acquired  the  habit  of 
accepting  his  wife's  services  in  his  literary  labors 
and  the  immense  correspondence  which  his  po- 
litical life  forced  upon  him.  Elizabeth  was  glad 
to  be  of  use ;  she  never  shirked  her  tasks  nor 
complained  of  fatigue,  and  he  did  not  spare  her. 
To  himself  he  would  not  have  admitted  that  she 
did  any  work  beyond  the  skill  of  an  ordinary 
amanuensis,  but  in  all  ways  she  was  like  a  quick- 
er, more  comprehensive  portion  of  his  own  intel- 
lect— able  sometimes  to  seize  and  make  palpable 
thoughts  which  only  vexed  him  by  their  vague- 
ness. He  refused  to  acknowledge  this  truth  to 
his  own  consciousness,  but  he  felt  it,  and  the 
knowledge  kept  up  a  constant  gourde  irritation 
in  his  mind. 

So  it  happened  that  the  first  news  of  the  com- 
pany's proposition  reached  Elizabeth  herself. 
She  was  opening  and  reading  aloud  letters ;  she 
came  upon  this ;  glanced  at  the  commencement, 
and  flung  the  sheet  down  with  an  expression  of 
horror. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  Vaughan  asked. 

"It  is  too  dreadful — I  can  not  read  it!"  she 
exclaimed,  putting  the  letter  into  his  hands. 

While  he  read  she  turned  away  to  a  window, 
trying  to  subdue  the  thrill  of  indignation  and 
grief  which  shook  her.  It  was  an  actual  insult 
and  desecration  offered  to  her  dead,  this  vile 
proposal. 

Vaughan  read  the  letter  through,  folded  it  up, 
and  laid  it  on  his  table.  Surprised  by  his  silence, 
she  looked  back,  her  features  still  quivering,  her 
eyes  bright  with  tears. 

"  Let  me  answer  it  at  once,"  she  said. 

"Don't  think  any  more  about  it,"  Vaughan 
replied ;  "I  will  attend  to  it." 

"But  did  you  ever  hear  of  a  proposal  so  ab- 
solutely base  and  revolting?"  she  demanded. 

"My  dear  Queenie,"  he  said,  calling  her  by 
that  pet  name,  after  a  habit  he  had  when  wishing 


to  be  particularly  kind  or  tender,  "  business  men 
have  not  leisure  for  sentiment." 

"At  least  they  might  be  human,"  returned 
she.  ' '  To  propose  carrying  their  road  through 
a  burial-place — it  has  been  consecrated — " 

"  Very  likely  they  knew  nothing  about  the 
graves  bsing  there,"  he  observed,  as  she  stopped, 
half  suffocated  by  emotion.  "  Don't  think  about 
it — there  is  no  use." 

"  You  will  answer  at  once,  Darrell?" 

' '  Of  course  !  Come,  you  are  upset  by  this ; 
dress  yourself  and  go  out.  I  can't  have  you 
worried  by  those  beasts'  stupidity." 

He  came  up  to  her,  passed  his  arm  about  her 
waist,  kissed  her  forehead  with  a  gentleness 
which  was  growing  rare  of  late.  She  felt  grate  - 
ftil  for  his  sympathy,  and,  with  her  usual  con- 
sideration, forebore  to  trouble  him  by  any  further 
display  of  emotion. 

She  went  out  to  drive,  paid -several  visits,  and 
all  the  morning  was  thinking  that  during  the 
past  weeks  a  change  for  the  better  had  come 
over  their  lives.  Only  once  since  her  father's 
death  had  she  discovered  any  trace  of  Vaughan's 
•having  yielded  to  the  fatal  fascinations  of  the 
poison.  No  hint  of  her  knowledge  had  passed 
her  lips :  she  could  not  be  certain  whether  he 
suspected  that  she  had  gained  the  clew  to  his 
secret. 

To-day  she  felt  more  hopeful  than  she  had 
done  for  months.  It  was  much  to  her  that  Dar- 
rell accepted  her  assistance ;  she  was  utterly  in- 
capable of  such  self-gratulation  and  complacency 
as  he 'imputed  to  her  in  his  thoughts.  She  did 
not  in  the  least  realize  what  his  growing  literary 
success,  his  efforts  as  an  orator,  owed  to  her  pa- 
tient toil  and  her  clear,  luminous  intellect.  She 
labored  without  selfish  feeling,  and  would  have 
been  more  astonished  than  the  world  had  she 
perceived  the  full  extent  of  her  part.  If  she. 
thought  at  all,  it  was  only  that  Vaughan,  like 
many  men,  was  too  impatient  and  excitable  to 
work  out  and  elaborate  his  own  brilliant  fancies 
or  clear  reasonings ;  she  was  blessed  with  a  kind 
of  faculty  (she  did  not  dream  of  calling  it  talent) 
to  understand  these,  and  an  ability  under  his 
directions  to  put  them  in  the  shape  requisite  for 
others'  comprehension. 

She  had  been  trying  of  late  to  lay  by  her  fore- 
bodings in  regard  to  their  future;  her  perception 
of  her  husband's  faults ;  her  consciousness  that, 
glitter  as  it  might,  his  course  was  animated  by 
motives  very  different  from  those  noble  aims  of 
which  he  had  talked  so  glowingly  during  the 
days  of  their  acquaintance  in  Italy. 

She  reproached  herself  with  having  been  guil- 
ty of  too  harsh  judgments,  when  she  perceived 
that  this  hero  whom  she  had  mounted  upon  so 
lofty  a  pedestal  was  only  human  after  all.  That 
he  had  grave  faults,  inexplicable  contradictions 
of  character,  even  startling  weaknesses,  was  no 
reason  why  she  should  dare  to  rise  up  in  con- 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR, 


demnation,  without  waiting  to  discover  wheth- 
er he  meant  to  struggle  against  these  tempta- 
tions. She  told  herself  that  she  had  thus  armed 
her  son)  in  the  first  shock  of  disappointment, 
and  now  she  was  obliged  to  admit  that  he  did 
strive  against  his  inner  foes ;  his  conduct  of 
late  enabled  her  to  believe  this.  She  exulted 
at  this  proof  of  his  strength,  and  blamed  her- 
self more  severely  than  another  could  have 
done. 

Gradually  he  would  outgrow  his  faults ;  am- 
bition would  limit  itself  to  rightful  bounds ;  this 
love  of  wealth  be  kept  from  warping  and  blight- 
ing his  character ;  his  temper  fought  down  and 
conquered. 

lie  could  not  be  a  sham — a  pretense.  He 
must  believe  in  his  own  aims,  and  he  would 
press  on  toward  their  realization. 

More  than  ever  she  was  thinking  these  things 
to-day.  Life  loqked  brighter  to  her  than  it  had 
done  for  a  long  time.  Not  content  with  doing 
her  husband  full  justice  in  her  esteem,  she  would 
have  him  reinstated  in  her  heart — that  proud 
heart  which  required  the  object  of  its  affection 
to  be  lofty  and  pure,  or  risk  awakening  an  es- 
trangement, a  terrible  shrinking  at  once  physical 
and  mental,  which  would  turn  her  very  soul  to 
stone,  or  wear  out  body  and  spirit  rapidly  in  the 
contest. 

Days  passed.  Vaughan  was  in  the  most  sun- 
ny of  his  moods — careful,  tender — fairly  like 
the  worshiper  who  had  wooed  her  under  Italian 
skies,  and  been  at  once  lover  and  fiiend.  Suc- 
cess had  come  to  every  undertaking  during  the 
past  weeks.  His  name  was  to  be  brought  up 
again  as  a  Congressional  candidate,  and  this 
time  triumph  was  certain,  for  he  had  resumed 
his  relations  with  the  municipal  party,  at  once 
the  most  powerful  and  corrupt  that  the  annals 
of  our  history  could  furnish.  lie  concealed  the 
fact  of  this  coalition  from  his  wife  as  carefully 
as  he  did  from  the  world  at  large,  and  managed 
so  well  that  not  a  suspicion  was  roused  in  the 
minds  of  honorable  men  who  were  among  his 
supporters.  The  municipal  leaders  were  as  anx- 
ious as  he  that  no  inkling  of  the  truth  should 
escape.  Sundry  schemes,  which  they  hoped  by 
his  assistance  to  carry  through  Congress,  would 
be  much  surer  of  success  if  entire  secrecy  were 
preserved  as  to  their  electioneering  efforts  in  his 
behalf. 

A  fortnight  elapsed.  Vaughan  left  home  sud- 
denly ;  he  told  Elizabeth  that  business  called 
liitn  to  Albany  —  he  might  be  absent  three  or 
four  days. 

The  second  morning  after  his  departure  Eliza- 
beth was  seized  with  a  desire  to  visit  Northcots, 
the  place  where  her  parents  were  buried.  She 
had  only  been  there  a  few  times  since  her  return 
from  Europe.  Vaughan  owned  a  country-seat 
in  another  county,  and  one  excuse  or  another  on 
lii-j  part  had  kept  her  awny  from  Northcots,  the 


real  reason  being  that  he  had  conceived  a  strong 
dislike  to  the  pretty  spot. 

She  would  take  Margot  and  go  up  there  for  the 
day  and  night.  An  old  servant  of  her  mother's 
had  always  lived  at  the  house  and  kept  it  in  or- 
der. It  would  be  a  sad  pleasure  to  have  a  day 
of  quiet  memories  in  the  haunt  where  so  much 
of  her  childhood  was  spent.  She  had  been  dream- 
ing, too,  all  night  of  her  mother — odd,  perplexing 
dreams ;  pleasant  at  first,  changing  suddenly  to 
dark,  painful  visions.  She  awoke  depressed  and 
absurdly  anxious ;  it  would  do  her  good  to  visit 
the  place. 

It  was  still  very  early  when  she  summoned  Mar- 
got  and  announced  her  determination.  They 
were  in  ample  time  for  the  morning  boat,  and  it 
was  a  pleasant  sail  of  a  few  hours  up  the  beau- 
tiful river,  with  the  landscape  on  either  hand 
brightening  into  the  glory  of  spring. 

They  left  the  boat  and  drove  -off  among  the 
hills  for  another  hour,  to  the  quiet  hamlet  near 
which  Northcots  lay. 

The  carriage  reached  the  entrance  to  the 
grounds.  The  gates  stood  open ;  they  passed 
through.  Elizabeth  was  leaning  back  in  her 
seat,  forgetful  of  her  dismal  fancies  of  the  night, 
when  Margot,. with  her  head  out  of  the  window, 
muttered  a  surprised  exclamation. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  her  mistress  inquired. 

The  Frenchwoman  turned  upon  her  a  face 
utterly  blank  with  astonishment.  There  was  no 
time  for  further  words  ;  the  carriage  had  halted 
on  the  lawn. 

"Why  do  you  stop  here?"  Elizabeth  asked, 
as  the  coachman  appeai-ed  at  the  door.  "And 
you  are  driving  over  the  grass.  What  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"I  couldn't  get  along  the  road,  ma'am,"  he 
answered;  "and  'taint  much  matter  about  the 
grass  now." 

He  stepped  back,  and  she  descended  from  the 
vehicle,  looked  up,  and  stood  transfixed  with 
horror.  The  sward  was  littered  with  furniture, 
men  were  bringing  out  of  the  house  great  panels 
of  wood,  and  putting  them  in  boxes  which  were 
placed  on  the  veranda.  The  grass  had  been  ruth- 
lessly trampled,  the  early  flowers  trodden  down. 

Elizabeth  grew  so  white  that  Margot,  who  had 
reached  her  side,  called  out  in  terror.  Her  voice 
roused  Mrs.  Vaughan  ;  she  moved  forward  across 
the  lawn,  and  entered  the  house. 

"What  are  you  doing — what  does  this  mean?" 
she  asked  one  of  the  men  busy  over  the  boxes. 

As  she  spoke  she  saw  that  they  were  packing 
the  painted  panels.  The  man  she  addressed  was 
a  mechanic  from  the  village,  who  knew  her  by 
sight. 

"It's  just  the  masther's  orders,  av  ye  plaze, 
ma'am,"  he  answered. 

Elizabeth  felt  dizzy  and  faint.  There  was  a 
sense  of  unreality  about  the  whole  thing  too ; 
it  was  like  the  continuation  of  her  evil  dreams. 


MR,  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


She  could  scarcely  persuade  herself  but  that  in 
another  moment  she  should  awake  and  find  her- 
self leagues  away  from  the  spot. 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  Anderson  ?"  she  inquired. 

"Faith,  ma'am,  it's  me  belafe  she's  keenin'  in 
the  kitchen,"  returned  the  Irishman,  staring  at 
her  in  open-mouthed  surprise. 

Elizabeth  hurried  past  him,  down  the  corri- 
dors, catching  glimpses  of  dismantled  rooms  as 
she  hastened  on — still  feeling  that  it  must  all 
be  a  hideous  dream ;  another  moment  and  she 
should  awake. 

On  through  a  back  passage  without  meeting 
any  one — into  the  kitchen,  usually  a  model  of 
neatness ;  but  the  same  disorder  reigned  here  as 
in  the  other  parts  of  the  house. 

"Mrs.  Anderson!"  called  Elizabeth. 

"Who  is  it? — what  do  you  want?"  returned 
a  voice  from  a  porch  off  the  kitchen. 

Elizabeth  passed  o.ut ;  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
veranda  stood  Mrs.  Anderson,  with  her  sleeves 
rolled  up,  her  cap  awry.  She  was  packing  all 
sorts  of  kitchen  utensils,  and  crying  heartily  as 
she  worked.  At  sight  of  her  young  mistress 
she  uttered  one  scream,  half  pain,  half  wrath, 
dropped  a  pile  of  plates  with  an  awful  crash, 
and  sat  flat  down  on  the  floor,  covering  her  face 
with  her  apron,  and  sobbipg  as  if  her  heart  would 
break. 

"Are  you  all  crazy!"  exclaimed  Mrs.Vaugh- 
an.  "Get  up  this  minute,  Prudence,  and  tell 
me  what  it  means. " 

Mrs.  Anderson  only  held  her  apron  more 
closely  over  her  head,  rocked  herself  to  and  fro, 
and  moaned — 

"  I'd  never  ha'  believed  it  of  you,  Miss  Eliza- 
beth— oh,  Miss  Elizabeth !  The  place  she  loved 
so — and  never  even  to  give  me  any  warning — 
oh,  it  has  broke  my  heart — broke  my  heart!" 

"Prudence!"  called  Elizabeth  again,  going 
toward  the  old  woman,  her  voice  grown  sudden- 
ly tremulous  and  weak — "Get  up,  for  Heaven's 
sake  get  up,  and  tell  me  what  has  happened." 

The  housekeeper  quickly  drew  the  apron  from 
her  face,  stared  for  one  instant  in  wonder  at 
the  pale  countenance  which  met  her  gaze,  and 
gasped — 

"I  don't  believe  she  did  it — I  don't  believe 
she  knowed  a  word !" 

"Knew  what?"  repeated  Elizabeth.  "Get  up 
— tell  me — tell  me. " 

"Don't  you  know  it's  sold?"  demanded  the 
old  woman,  rising. 

"Sold— what  is  sold?" 

"The  hull  place — the  very  graves  out  on  the 
hill-side !"  cried  Prudence.  "  Oh,  Miss  Eliza- 
beth, say  you  didn't  do  it — say  you  didn't!" 

A  mist  gathered  before  Elizabeth's  eyes ;  the 
woman  seemed  suddenly  retreating  to  a  great  dis- 
tance ;  the  veranda  heaved  under  her  feet,  and 
a  roaring  like  a  sea  deafened  her — then  every- 
thing was  a  blank. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

NOETHCOTS. 

WHEK  Elizabeth  came  to  her  senses  she  was 
seated  in  a  chair,  her  bonnet  oft' ;  Mrs.  Anderson 
and  Margot  were  bathing  her  forehead,  holding 
hartshorn  to  her  nose,  and  talking  incoherently 
in  their  respective  languages. 

"  Miss  Elizabeth,  Miss  Elizabeth  !"  moaned 
Prudence.  "  Laud's  sake,  she's  jist  like  dead  !" 

Margot's  voice  rose  shriller  still.  The  noise 
was  insupportable  to  Mrs.Vaughan. 

"Don't!"  she  said  feebly,  holding  up  her 
hand.  "  Give  me  some  water." 

Prudence  put  a  glass  to  her  lips ;  Elizabeth 
managed  to  drink. 

"Madame  is  better !"  cried  Margot. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  Elizabeth  answered  slowly.  "  Go 
away  for  a  few  minutes,  Margot — I  want  to  speak 
with  Mrs.  Anderson." 

"  Oh,  deary  me !  oh,  deary  me !"  groaned  Pru- 
dence. "She  didn't  know — she  didn't  know; 
I  said  at  first  she  didn't." 

"  Did  you  say  the  place  was  sold  ?"  Elizabeth 
asked.  "I  could  not  have  heard  that — you  did 
not  say  so,  Prudence !" 

"  Oh,  Laud's  sake!  oh,  mercy  on  us !"  sobbed 
the  old  woman,  breaking  into  a  fresh  torrent  of 
tears. 

Again  Elizabeth  checked  her. 

" Please  don't,"  she  said ;  "I  think  I  am  not 
well — every  noise  sounds  so  loud.  Try  and  tell 
me  what  it  all  means." 

"Mr.  Vaughan  haint  told  you!"  Prudence 
fairly  shrieked,  regardless  of  the  caution  she  had 
just  received.  "I  never  beerd  the  like — your 
own  property  too — your  own  dear  mother's  afore 
you — and  she  pulled  out  of  her  grave  actilly — 
oh  Lord !  oh  Lord !" 

Elizabeth  caught  at  the  arms  of  her  chair — 
every  thing  began  anew  to  totter  and  reel. 

"If  you  don't  tell  me,  I  shall  die,"  she  whis- 
pered. ' '  Prudence,  Prudence  I " 

"It's  sold,  I  tell  you;  and  they  wanted  me 
to  believe  it  was  your  work, "  cried  Prudence. 
"  Sold,  every  acre  and  foot — house  and  all — even 
to  the  graves.  Oh,  that  was  what  cut  me  worst ! 
I  said  to  Mr.  Vaughan  I'd  lived — " 

"Has  Mi\ Vaughan  been  here?"  broke  in 
Elizabeth. 

"Why,  he's  here  somewheres  now,  else  down 
to  the  village.  Didn't  you  even  know  that  ?" 

"Go  and  find  him,  Prudence,"  said  Elizabeth. 

A  hot  indignation  sprang  up  under  her  pain 
— the  outrage  was  so  flagrant,  so  atrocious.  She 
could  hardly  realize  it  yet ;  even  now  that  she 
knew  he  was  here,  she  could  scarcely  force 
herself  to  believe  he  had  not  only  sold  her  old 
home,  but  allowed  the  graves  of  her  parents  to 
be  desecrated.  Then  her  indignation  inspired 
her  with  a  sudden  resolve ;  she  called  Prudence 
back. 


8G 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


"Tell  those  men  to  stop  their  work,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "  I  will  not  have  another  thing  touch- 
ed— not  a  thing." 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"'Taint  no  use  now,"  she  replied;  "it's  too 
late,  Miss  Elizabeth  ;  the  place  is  gone,  unless — 
why,  law,  you  must  ha'  signed  the  deed  if  it's 
reg'lavly  sold." 

Elizabeth  remembered  that  two  days  before- 
her  husband's  departure  she  had  been  ill  with  a 
torturing  nervous  headache — a  headache  caused 
by  several  hours  of  unremitting  toil  for  him 
when  already  sorely  fatigued.  Darrell  had  come 
into  the  room  where  she  lay  half  asleep,  apolo- 
gizing for  disturbing  her,  but  it  was  necessary 
she  should  sign  her  name  to  two  deeds ;  he  was 
about  to  sell  some  wild  bands  he  owned,  and,  of 
course,  required  her  signature.  She  was  too  ill 
to  a»k  questions  or  to  think,  and  after  that  she 
forgot  the  matter.  She  recollected  now  how  gen- 
tle he  had  been — bathing  her  forehead,  holding 
the  papers  so  that  she  could  write  without  lift- 
ing her  head  !  All  the  while  he  had  been  base- 
ly deceiving  her !  Oh  !  it  was  impossible  ;  he 
could  not  be  so  vile !  She  would  doubt  even  the 
evidence  of  her  own  senses  rather  than  credit 
this! 

"  Say  nothing  to  the  men,"  she  said,  as  these 
thoughts  whirled  through  her  brain.  "  Go  and 
find  Mr.Vaughan." 

She  remained  there  for  what  seemed  a  very 
long  time.  Once  Margot  came  and  addressed 
some  question  to  her,  but  she  motioned  the  girl 
away ;  speech  was  too  painful  to  be  attempted 
during  this  suspense.  Twice  she  rose  with  the 
idea  of  going  herself  to  seek  Darrell — sat  down 
again,  deterred  by  the  recollection  that  their 
meeting  ought  to  be  without  witnesses. 

Mrs.  Anderson  came  back  at  last ;  she  had 
walked  rapidly,  and  was  in  a  pitiable  condition 
between  weeping  and  fatigue. 
'  "  lie  haint  around,  my  dean-  dear,"  she  said ; 
"he's  driv  off  with  some  o'  them  men;  but  I 
left  word  with  every  body  to  send  him  on  to  the 
Louse  as  soon  as  he  got  back." 

She  must  wait ;  until  she  had  seen  Vaughan 
she  could  not  even  command  the  workmen  to 
stop :  they  might  answer  that  they  were  obey- 
ing her  husband's  orders  !  The  sound  of  ham- 
mers, the  tread  of  feet,  the  murmur  of  voices, 
came  up  every  now  and  then,  and  shook  anew 
the  composure  she  was  struggling  so  hard  to  at- 
tain. She  rose  at  length,  determined  to  get  be- 
yond the  reach  of  these  noises,  which  struck  like 
blows  upon  her  heart. 

"  I  will  be  back  presently,"  she  said  to  Pru- 
dence, who  was  not  yet  sufficiently  restored  for 
conversation. 

"But  you  haint  had  nothing  to  eat,"  she  ex- 
postulated, roused  into  thoughtfulness  at  once. 
"It's  all  upset,  but  I  could  manage  sumpthing." 
"I'm  not  hungry— I  can't  eat,  thank  yon," 


Elizabeth  replied.     "Give  Margot  some  lunch- 
eon if  you  can." 

She  passed  down  the  steps,  and  hurried  through 
the  shrubberies  which  extended  toward  the  hill. 
At  first  Prudence  did  not  comprehend  whither 
she  was  bound ;  but  when  she  saw  her  take  the 
path  that  led  to  the  gates  dividing  the  grounds 
from  the  ascent,  she  exclaimed — 

' '  Good  Lord !  she  mustn't  go  there !  Win- 
that  would  be  worse'n  all  the  rest  to  her!". 

She  dashed  off  in  pursuit,  calling  on  Mrs. 
Vaughan  to  stop.  Elizabeth  was  so  engrossed 
by  the  terrible  thoughts  which  agitated  her  mind 
and  the  awful  pain  at  her  heart  that  she  did  not 
hear.  Suddenly  the  old  woman  stood  still,  mut- 
tering— 

"Mebby  she  hears  and  means  to  keep  on. 
Wai,  going  won't  make  it  really  no  worse,  arter 
all.  What  it  all  means  is  more'n  I  can  make 
out,  only  that  husband  of  hern  has  been  at  some 
villainy,  smooth  as  he  looks.  I  know  more  about 
him'n  she  does.  La !  if  I'd  a  chose  to  speak — 
but  there,  she  was  married  to  him,  and  what 
was  the  good  ?" 

She  walked  back  to  the  house,  where  sl:c  was 
joined  by  Margot.  While  Prudence  did  her  best 
to  prepare  something  for  the  Frenchwoman  to 
eat,  the  pair  held  an  animated  conversation, 
though  neither  could  understand  a  fourth  part 
of  the  other's  talk — a  fact  which  seemed  to  ren- 
der both  more  emphatic  and  voluble. 

Elizabeth  pushed  the  gates  ajar,  and  entered 
the  grove  which  extended  along  the  side  of  the 
hill.  It  was  a  pretty  place.  The  afternoon  sun 
streamed  in  through  the  branches  of  the  maple- 
trees  ;  a  tiny  rivulet  ran  singing  along ;  the 
voices  of  the  early  birds  sounded  joyous  and  clear. 
As  she  mounted,  glimpses  of  the  valley  below 
opened  to  her  gaze,  with  the  distant  mountain 
peaks  standing  up  purple  and  soft  beyond. 

This  wood  had  been  a  favorite  haunt  of  her 
mother's ;  there  was  not  a  path,  not  a  nook,  but 
was  replete  to  Elizabeth's  mind  with  some  asso- 
ciation of  heV  childhood — that  childhood  which 
her  mother's  love  had  rendered  so  happy.  At 
the  top  of  the  hill  a  smooth,  level  sweep  of  green- 
sward spread  out,  carpeted  with  violets  and  dai- 
sies, groups  of  stately  elms  and  solemn  pine- 
trees  guarding  the  spot.  In  the  centre,  under 
the  shade  of  n  magnificent  willow,  rose  the  tomb 
in  which  less  than  a  year  since  she.  had  seen  her 
father  laid  to  rest  by  the  side  of  the  mother  whose 
memory  was  the  most  sacred  treasure  of  her 
heart.  She  reached  the  summit,  and  looked  to- 
ward the  grave.  She  had  scarcely  noticed  Pru- 
dence's words — certainly  had  not  taken  in  their 
import.  The  marble  monument  had  disappear- 
ed ;  the  gigantic  willow  lay  prostrate  on  the 
ground ;  all  about  were  signs  of  awful  havoc 
and  desolation. 

Elizabeth  felt  her  senses  giving  way  again  ; 
she  sat  blindly  down  on  a  bench,  and  hid  her 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


87 


face  in  her  Lauds,  trying  to  lift  her  mind  enough 
out  of  its  confusion  and  the  physical  weakness 
which  unnerved  her. 

There  was  no  possibility  of  further  self-decep- 
tion where  her  husband  was  concerned ;  he  had 
sold  the  property — actually  torn  her  parents'  re- 
mains out  of  their  consecrated  resting-place  in 
liis  greed.  She  could  only  meet  him  once  more ; 
could  only  remain  long  enough  to  hear  him  ad- 
mit his  guilt ;  beyond  that  her  endurance  would 
not  go.  She  was  too  shocked  for  tears  —  too 
much  horrified  even  for  anger.  She  could  only 
sit  there  and  shiver,  while  the  spring  wind  drift- 
ed through  the  branches  of  the  fallen  willow, 
and  roused  a  low  complaint  which  sounded  in 
her  ears  like  the  moan  of  grieving  spirits. 

At  length  the  dull  echo  of  footsteps  on  the 
turf  roused  her ;  she  looked  up,  and  saw  her  hus- 
band upon  the  other  extremity  of  the  hill  in 
company  with  two  men.  She  rose,  and  with  all 
the  force  she  could  muster,  called  aloud — 

"Mr.Vaughan!" 

He  heard ;  stopped  for  an  instant  irresolute, 
then  turned,  dismissed  the  men,  and  walked  to- 
ward her.  She  sat  down  again,  and  waited ; 
wrath  and  sorrow  seemed  alike  to  leave  her 
heart.  She  felt  cold  and  stiff  as  if  an  icy  wind 
had  blown  over  her.  A  strange  longing  to  fly 
crossed  her  mind  as  he  approached — a  shudder 
disturbed  her  whole  frame ;  she  was  like  a  per- 
son watching  some  noxious  thing  which  she  had 
no  power  to  escape. 

He  came  on,  wearing  his  usual  calm,  pleasant 
expression  ;  there  was  neither  confusion  nor  re- 
morse in  his  countenance.  When  quite  near,  he 
exclaimed — 

"Why,  Queenie,  I  could  scarcely  believe  my 
eyes !  Where  on  earth  did  you  spring  from  so 
suddenly  ?" 

He  had  passed  by  the  house ;  Mrs.  Anderson 
had  told  him  of  his  wife's  arrival,  so  he  was  pre- 
pared for  the  interview. 

"What  put  it  into  your  head  to  come  up  to- 
day, of  all  others  ?"  he  continued,  as  he  reached 
the  bench.  He  held  out  his  hand — stooped  to 
kiss  her.  She  shrank  from  his  caress,  and  kept 
her  arms  folded  across  her  bosom ;  but  he  was 
resolutely  blind. 

"Will  you  explain  to  me  the  meaning  of  all 
this — this — "  She  had  got  so  far  quietly,  but 
now  her  voice  broke.  She  waited  in  silence,  nev- 
er moving  her  eyes  from  his  face— eyes  which, 
unconsciously  to  herself,  regarded  him  with  a 
horror  and  repulsion  he  was  quick  enough  to  per- 
ceive. Still  he  appeared  to  notice  nothing  un- 
common in  tone  or  manner — not  a  shade  of  sur- 
prise crossed  his  features. 

"I  am  sony  you  happened  to  come  to-day,"  | 
he  said,  gently.  "  I  meant  to  have  had  every  j 
thing  arranged  before  I  told  you,  so  that  there ! 
might  be  nothing  painful  to  you  in  the  matter." 

"It  is  true,  then?"  she  asked,  slowly.     Her 


voice  sounded  unnaturally  composed  now.  "You 
have  sold  my  mother's  home  —  you  have  not 
even  left  my  parents  quiet  in  their  graves !" 

"  Let  me  explain  to  you — " 

"I  could  not  believe  it — I  doubted  the  evi- 
dence of  my  own  senses,"  she  continued,  in  the 
same  low  tone,  which,  still  rang  out  with  a  strange 
power.  "I  thought  I  was  mad — I  wish  I  had 
been !  I  wish  Heaven  had  been  merciful  enough 
to  let  me  die  yesterday. " 

"My  dearest  Queenie!" 

She  shivered  anew  at  this  utterance  of  the  fa- 
miliar pet  name  he  had  caught  from  her  father, 
but  neither  face  nor  voice  lost  their  stern  rigid- 
ity. She  went  on  unheeding — 

"At  least  I  might  have  died  honoring  you — 
believing  in  your  truth,  your  manhood !  Dar- 
rell  Vaughan,  you  have  not  only  desecrated  my 
parents'  graves  —  not  only  trampled  my  heart 
down  under  your  iron  will,  but  you  have  de- 
stroyed my  faith — left  me  alone  in  the  night,  al- 
most without  hope  in  my  God!" 

"Don't  say  any  more,"  returned  he,  still 
speaking  kindly,  though  a  frown  darkened  his 
forehead.  "  You  will  be  sorry  afterward — you 
always  are,  you  know,  when  your  temper  leads 
you  to  judge  me  hastily  and  say  harsh  things." 

"I  think  I  shall  never  be  able  to  feel  sorry 
again,"  she  answered,  and  a  quiver  shook  the 
sternness  of  her  voice ;  "  I  think  I  shall  never 
have  the  ability  to  feel  grieved  or  repentant  any 
more." 

He  was  astonished  at  the  horror,  at  the  un- 
utterable despair,  which  had  seized  her.  He  had 
expected  tears,  anger,  sorrow  of  a  certain  sort, 
but  nothing  like  this.  Positively  he  could  com- 
prehend no  reason  for  such  excessive  feeling. 
He  had  meant  to  keep  his  secret  as  long  as  pos- 
sible, never  doubting  that  after  the  first  outburst 
he  should  be  able  to  soothe  and  bring  her  to  ac- 
knowledge the  reasonableness  and  common-sense 
of  his  procedure. 

"  Now,  Queenie,  let  us  talk  it  quietly  out,"  he 
said,  sitting  down  beside  her,  and  speaking  with 
resolute  patience. 

"Did  you  not  promise  me  that  nothing  should 
be  done  ?  Did  you  not  profess  as  much  horror 
as  I  when  that  infamous  offer  came  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  had  not  considered  the  case — I  did  not  un- 
derstand it  fully,  any  more  than  you  do  now,'' 
he  replied. 

' '  Did  you  or  did  you  not  promise  ?"  demanded 
she. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  but — " 

"  And  you  broke  your  word." 

"  Elizabeth !" 

"You  went  away  on  a  journey;  in  regard  to 
that  you  spoke  falsely.  Can  you  deny  it  ?" 

"I  have  no  intention  of  denying  any  thing," 
he  answered,  in  the  same  self- restrained,  com- 
passionate way.  "I  did  it  all  from  affection 
and  a  wish  to  spare  you  pain." 


88 


MB.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIE. 


"To  spare  me!"  she  repeated,  pointing  to- 
ward the  open  grave,  while  her  eyes  seemed  to 
pierce  his  very  soul  with  their  steely  light. 

"I  must  insist  now  on  your  hearing  me,"  he 
said  more  firmly,  but  still  with  the  forbearance 
one  would  exercise  toward  a  rebellions  child  that 
needed  to  be  brought  back  to  reason.  "  I  meant 
to  write,  rejecting  the  proposal." 

She  motioned  him  to  go  on,  touching  the  palm 
of  her  left  hand  with  the  fingers  of  her  right,  and 
continuing  to  do  it  at  each  new  statement,  as  if 
jotting  them  down  to  compare  the  aggregate — 
never  once  releasing  him  from  the  thraldom  of 
her  eyes. 

"  The  president  of  the  railway  came  himself 
to  see  me.  Now  you  know,  Elizabeth,  that  one 
can  not  binder  a  road  being  carried  along  a  cer- 
tain route  if  it  is  considered  absolutely  indispen- 
sable. There  must  either  have  been  a  long  d£- 
tour  or  this  cutting.  I  could  not  help  yielding." 

"The  detour  would  have  been  one-half  mile," 
she  said,  when  he  paused ;  "it  was  discussed  in 
your  presence  and  mine  a  year  ago.  The  cost 
of  that  dtlour  we  could  have  paid  if  necessary." 

This  seemed  to  Darrell  a  proposal  so  insane 
that  he  involuntarily  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Since  this  must  be  done,"  he  continued,  "it 
seemed  better  to  sell  the  house  and  land.  You 
would  no  longer  have  cared  to  come  here,  and 
the  company  were  willing  to  pay  largely  for  it. " 

"  The  company  of  which  you  have  become  one 
of  the  chief  directors,"  she  replied.  "I  suppose 
you  count  on  at  least  another  fortune  from  your 
share  in  the  factories  that  are  to  be  erected  over 
my  mother's  home — fresh  millions  from  the  pro- 
ceeds of  the  road  which  runs  across  my  father's 
grave?" 

"Of  course  you  can't  reason — no  woman  can," 
exclaimed  Vaughan  impatiently,  yet  with  a  cer- 
tain aggrieved  inflection  in  his  voice.  "I  have 
done  every  thing  that  a  human  creature  could  to 
soften  matters — stayed  up  here  myself,  superin- 
tended every  thing,  even  to  the  taking  down  of 
those  old  painted  panels — and  the  thanks  I  get 
are  reproaches  and  insolent  looks,  as  if  I  had 
been  guilty  of  some  fiendish  outrage." 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  with  a  sudden  bitter  passion, 
"  there  are  enormities  even  fiends  would  shrink 
from;  there  are  acts  so  dastardly  that  only  a 
man  could  perpetrate  them." 

"I  see  you  are  determined  to  quarrel,  Eliza- 
beth ;  if  you  insist  upon  it,  we  must.  I  have 
borne  your  taunts  patiently,  but  I  warn  you  there 
arc  limits  to  my  self-control." 

"I  think  I  was  wrong  to  sny  that,  though  I 
can  not  be  sorry,"  she  answered,  more  quietly. 

"That's  right!  Now  do  be  a  dear,  reason- 
able girl!" 

She  struggled  for  a  moment  with  her  pride 
and  anger,  then  a  sudden  eagerness  came  into 
her  face.  She  stretched  out  her  hands  with  a 
pleading  gesture. 


"  It  is  not  too  late!"  she  exclaimed.  "  Go  to 
these  men  —  buy  back  this  place  —  give  all  my 
fortune — it  would  be  enough,  Darrell.  Darrell, 
I  have  no  one  but  you  in  the  world ;  leave  me 
my  love,  my  faith !  Do  this — oh  my  husband — 
for  our  future  peace — for  our  souls'  safety — do 
it!" 

"  I  would  do  any  thing  for  you,  Elizabeth,"  he 
replied ;  "  but  this  is  impossible!  I  am  power- 
less !  I  was  forced  to  sell — " 

She  interrupted  him  by  a  groan. 

"  Spare  me  any  more  falsehoods ;  at  least  you 
can  do  that." 

"You  call  tenderness  and  thoughtfulness  false- 
hoods ! "  retorted  he. 

' '  If  my  prayers  have  no  effect,  if  my  suffer- 
ing do  not  move  you,  then  think  how  this  action 
will  appear  to  the  world !  What  excuse  can  you 
offer? — how  right  yourself  in  men's  esteem  ? — 
and  you  prize  that." 

"  Good  heavens !"  cried  he,  "men  are  not  ba- 
bies !  Why  every  body  thinks  it  so  wise  and  sen- 
sible on  our  part.  The  clergyman  here,  your 
friend,  said  it  was  just  what  ought  to  be  done. 
He  admired  your  common -sense.  I  gave  you 
the  whole  credit!  I  said,  what  was  the  truth, 
that  if  we  were  both  to  die  we  could  not  be  sure 
this  place  would  be  preserved — it  was  not  a  reg- 
ular burial-ground — it  was  much  better  to  have 
the  bodies  removed  to  the  new  cemetery  near,  a 
very  pretty  place.  I  have  purchased  a  lot — ' 

She  threw  up  her  hands  again,  this  time  with 
a  gesture  that  pleaded  for  silence. 

"I  must  explain,"  he  said.  "You  must  be 
brought  to  see  the  thing  in  its  proper  light.  You 
accuse  me  of  thinking  about  money,  you  talk  so 
much  about  doing  good — you  are  full  of  grand 
schemes — can  you  make  no  sacrifice  to  accom- 
plish them  ?  The  new  resources  which  the  road 
and  the  factories  will  afford  us  make  such  designs 
more  practicable — " 

She  interrupted  him  again.  She  knew  too 
well  the  hollowness  of  such  promises.  No  phil- 
anthropic scheme  would  ever  appeal  to  this  man, 
except  it  flattered  his  vanity  or  added  to  his  ag- 
grandizement. 

" I  think  we  must  end  here, "she  said.  " Oh, 
go  away ;  leave  me  my  life  to  myself!" 

He  stared  at  her  in  bewilderment. 

"  You  had  better  talk  intelligibly,"  he  sneered. 

"I  want  to  live  alone — can  you  understand 
that?  I  want  to  escape  an  atmosphere  of  de- 
ception and  treachery." 

"Oh  yes;  now  I  understand!  To  gratify 
your  vindictive  disposition  you  want  to  pose  as  a 
martyr  before  the  world — you  want  to  ruin  my 
whole  career!  This  is  your  idea  of  wifely  duty 
that  you  used  to  talk  so  much  about  before  our 
marriage !  —  this  is  the  conduct  your  loudly 
vaunted  religion  teaches  you !  If  your  church- 
going,  your  prayers,  your  Lenten  observances, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it,  have  taught  you  no  more 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


89 


than  this,  you  had  better  turn  schismatic  or  her- 
etic, and  see  if  some  sensible  modern  faith  can 
not  appeal  to  your  reason  a  little,  since  the  old 
creeds  and  apostolic  benedictions  have  failed  to 
touch  your  heart !" 

"I  want  my  life  free!"  she  repeated.  "At 
least  leave  me  the  ability  to  pray,  to  trust  in  my 
God.  I  think  even  that  would  have  to  go." 

"Now  see  here,"  he  exclaimed;  "we  will 
end  the  matter  once  for  all !  I  have  done  noth- 
ing which  could  afford  you  a  pretext  for  leaving 
me  in  the  eyes  of  the  law.  According  to  your 
doctrine  and  your  Bible,  there  is  only  one  sin  on 
my  part  that  could  liberate  you;  you  can  not 
accuse  me  of  that !  I  have  been  a  faithful  hus- 
band, loving  and  kind!  I  am  ready  to  be  so 
still ;  to  forget  your  unjustifiable  language.  At 
all  events,  we  shall  not  separate !  If  you  prefer 
war  to  peace,  take  it." 

"Any  thing  for  quiet,"  she  moaned;  "any 
thing." 

"  However  you  may  judge  my  conduct,  you 
are  bound  to  believe  I  meant  to  act  for  the  best, 
since  I  assert  it  solemnly.  So  to  leave  me  would 
be  only  to  gratify  your  temper ;  you  would  ruin 
me  socially,  politically,  just  to  do  this !  Think 
a  little ;  could  any  sin  be  greater  than  that  ?  Try 
to  cover  up  your  purpose  under  what  fine  names 
you  might,  the  truth  would  remain ;  you  would 
live  to  feel  and  to  upbraid  yourself  more  bitterly 
than  you  have  me." 

He  had  triumphed  by  making  others  believe 
that  this  sale  of  the  property,  this  removal  of  the 
graves,  was  with  her  consent  and  participation. 
He  triumphed  anew  by  appealing  to  her  sense  of 
duty,  her  dread  of  doing  any  thing  wrong,  her 
fear  that  her  motives  might  be  actuated  by  pas- 
sion or  evil  temper.  She  was  conquered  in  every 
way.  Had  she  gone,  that  mocking  appeal  of  his 
to  her  Bible  would  have  brought  her  back.  She 
had  no  right  to  leave  him ;  she  must  stay,  must 
endure. 

She  sat  silent  for  a  time.  He  studied  her  face 
furtively,  reading  her  thoughts  as  completely  as 
if  she  had  put  them  into  words.  He  could  have 
smiled  at  the  ease  of  his  victory.  But  from  the 
first  he  had  known  he  should  succeed ;  final  de- 
feat never  menaced  his  will. 

At  last  she  turned  her  eyes  toward  him  again. 
The  fire  had  died  out  of  them ;  the  hardness 
out  of  her  face ;  she  looked  utterly  helpless  and 
crushed.  It  was  no  mere  submission  to  his  edict 
which  broke  her  resolution  ;  no  hesitation  in  re- 
gard to  expediency  or  the  world's  opinion.  His 
words  had  reminded  her  that  she  had  no  right  to 
shrink  from  the  duties  she  had  accepted,  the  vows 
she  had  made.  Life  might  become  henceforth  a 
martyrdom,  but  she  must  bear  it.  Straightway 
that  active,  living  faith  which  animated  her  soul 
whispered  the  dear  words  wherewith  the  Holy 
Spirit  encouraged  His  disciple —  her  weakness 
would  be  made  perfect  in  His  strength.  It  was 


hard  to  believe ;  difficult  in  this,  the  most  fear- 
ful trial  she  had  known,  to  keep  any  hold  of  the 
old  faith.  But  she  clung  to  it,  torn,  broken  as 
she  was ;  clung  to  it  as  she  might  have  done  to 
an  actual  representation  of  the  holy  cross ;  and 
once  more  in  the  life  of  a  human  being  was  re- 
newed God's  precious  promise  that  no  creature 
shall  be  tempted  beyond  his  powers  of  endur- 
ance, since  with  the  temptation  comes  always 
the  means  of  escape — faith  in  the  Father. 

"I  want  to  go  home,"  she  said,  faintly;  "let 
me  go  home." 

"  Yes,  dear,  yes !"  Never  had  his  voice  been 
sweeter,  his  face  more  kind.  "You  will  just 
have  time  to  reach  the  station  comfortably.  I 
would  go  to  town  with  you  but  I  want  to  be  cer- 
tain every  thing  in  the  house  is  properly  at- 
tended to.  I  shall  be  down  the  day  after  to- 
morrow. " 

At  least  a  season  to  herself  was  granted — a 
space  to  garner  up  her  strength  iu  solitude ;  it 
was  much  in  this  hour  of  need. 

She  rose  to  go. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said. 

He  had  conquered.  He  liked  peace.  He  was 
still  enough  under  the  spell  of  her  beauty  to  be 
greatly  influenced  thereby,  and  she  looked  very 
beautiful  in  her  suffering  and  prostration.  It 
would  have  been  a  new  pang,  an  added  horror, 
could  she  have  understood  that  his  strongest 
reason  for  self-restraint  and  gentleness  rose  out 
of  the  passion  of  his  sensuous  nature. 

"I'll  go  down  to  the  house  with  you,"  he  an- 
swered; "but  let  us  say  the  real  good-bye  here. 
You  are  a  brave  girl.  You  will  try  to  believe  I 
meant  to  act  for  the  best  ?  Kiss  me,  Elizabeth  ; 
let  us  be  at  peace." 

The  handsome  face  bent  toward  her ;  the  eyes, 
soft  with  a  sudden  eagerness,  gazed  into  her  own. 
She  shrank  away,  moaning — "I  can't,  I  can't!    - 
Let  me  go! — oh,  let  me  go !" 

Another  man, with  a  temper  so  hasty  as  Vaugh- 
an's,  might  have  been  roused  to  anger,  but  he 
only  felt  a  kind  of  pleasure  in  her  hesitation.  It 
would  be  like  winning  a  fresh  heart,  gaining  a, 
new  experience,  to  woo  her  back  to  an  accept- 
ance of  his  caresses.  But  now  he  only  said — 
"  Come,  then,  let  us  go!  We'll  not  talk  of  these 
things  any  more.  We  will  both  forgive  and  for- 
get !  In  our  whole  lives,  probably,  no  such  strong 
cause  of  difference  will  ever  arise.  I  meant  for 
the  best ;  one  day  you  will  see  it  too." 

She  did  not  answer. 

"You  are  not  angry  still?"  he  asked,  pres- 
ently. 

"No,"  she  replied,  in  a  tired  voice;  "I  am 
not  angry.  Leave  the  matter ;  you  said  we  were 
to  leave  it." 

They  walked  on  toward  the  house.  After  a 
few  moments  he  spoke  of  the  pretty  landscape, 
the  cloud  effects,  the  prognostications  of  the 
farmers  in  regard  to  the  coming  season.  An- 


90 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


other  man  would  have  done  this  to  avoid  the 
embarrassment  of  silence,  after  a  scene  like  that 
they  had  gone  through,  or  to  keep  his  mind  or 
hers  from  dwelling  on  it ;  but  it  was  not  Vaugh- 
an's  reason.  He  noticed,  and  was  thinking  of 
the  matters  he  talked  about ;  he  had  conquered, 
and  was  prepared  to  be  cheerful  and  at  ease ; 
curious  also  to  see  how  much  self-control  she 
could  exert. 

Margot  and  Prudence  were  standing  on  the 
kitchen-porch  when  they  reached  the  dwelling. 
Elizabeth  spoke  kindly  to  both  women,  and  be- 
fore going  away  arranged  that  Mrs.  Anderson 
should  still  remain  in  her  service.  She  was  so 
composed  that  most  people  would  have  believed 
her  convinced  of  the  wisdom  and  necessity  of 
her  husband's  conduct.  But  Prudence  was  too 
shrewd  to  be  deceived,  though  of  course  she  held 
her  peace  then  and  afterward. 

To  pass  through  the  denuded  dwelling  again 
was  mdre  than  Elizabeth's  fortitude  could  sup- 
port. She  requested  Margot  to  have  the  coach- 
man drive  round  to  the  back  entrance. 

Vaughan  helped  her  into  the  carnage,  and  took 
his  place  beside  her.  Prudence  alone  caught  the 
one  last  despairing  glance  her  mistress  cast  toward 
the  hill  as  they  drove  away. 

Vaughan  talked  pleasantly,  and  Elizabeth 
made  a  pretense  of  listening.  Margot  was 
there ;  no  human  being  must  obtain  a  glimpse 
of  the  awful  gulf  across  whose  depths  she  re- 
garded her  husband.  The  effort  and  the  strug- 
gle had  begun. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

BREAKING   HER   BOXDS. 

THE  slow,  dull  sweep  of  a  sluggish  river,  the 
stretch  of  a  meagre  village  along  its  banks,  here 
and  there  a  factory  sending  up  clouds  of  black 
smoke  which  render  the  narrow  streets  still 
more  dingy  and  close.  An  open  square  in  the 
middle,  with  an  old  gray  church.  From  this 
square,  a  stone  bridge  arching  the  stream ;  be- 
yond, a  steep  hill,  along  whose  side  rise  sombre, 
frowning  houses,  guarded  by  high  walls.  On  the 
summit  another  square,  surrounded  by  still  more 
stately  and  sombre  mansions,  likewise  jealously 
guarded  by  lofty  walls  and  huge  oaken  doors. 

This  square  is  so  dull  and  silent  that  the  one 
in  the  village  below  seems  a  carnival  scene  in 
comparison.  There  is  a  church  here  too,  so 
ancient  that  the  columns  along  the  front  need 
the  support  of  iron  stays.  The  tower  is  moss- 
grown  and  covered  with  ivy ;  a  clock  within 
strikes  the  hours  in  a  solemn  voice,  and  the  bells 
ring  out  with  a  muflled  sound,.a.s  if  they  had 
grown  weak  and  hoarse  from  age.  There  is  a 
fountain  in  the  centre  of  the  square,  backed  by 
a  huge  black  cross,  on  which  "hangs  a  bronze 


figure  of  the  Crucified ;  but  the  fountain  does 
not  bubble  and  laugh  after  the  habit  of  its  kind ; 
it  only  rises  and  falls  into  the  cracked  marble 
basin  with  a  dolorous  murmur,  so  like  a  human 
complaint  that  a  fanciful  person  might  almost 
deem  it  the  moan  of  the  tortured  shape  above. 
A  line  of  solemn  cypresses  extends  along  the 
church,  and  adds  to  the  gloom.  No  matter  how 
brightly  the  sun  shines,  it  is  a  sombre,  chilly 
place,  that  makes  one  shiver.  So  horribly  silent 
too !  Occasionally  a  flock  of  pigeons  darts  down 
from  the  belfry  and  circles  about ;  but  they  are  not 
talkative  pigeons — dark  of  plumage  too,  whisper- 
ing a  little  to  one  another,  stepping  gingerly 
over  the  broken  pavement ;  altogether  so  still 
and  shadow -like  that  one  imagines  them  the 
ghosts  of  the  cloistered  nuns  who  have  died  out 
of  the  grim  convent  at  the  back  of  the  church. 
There  are  never  any  children  playing  about,  to 
rouse  pleasant  echoes  by  their  blithe  young  voices. 
One  might  sit  there  half  a  day  without  seeing  a 
creature  pass,  unless  when  toward  sunset  the 
gates  of  the  great  houses  open,  and  give  passage 
to  elderly  figures,  who  saunter  about  almost  as 
noiselessly  as  the  pigeons,  or  an  old-fashioned 
carriage  drawn  by  sedate  horses  rolls  out  of 
some  courtyard,  and  passes  slowly  away  toward 
the  poplar-bordered  road  beyond  the  hill. 

Leave  the  square,  go  along  the  street  which 
leads  to  the  poplar-bordered  road  with  its  mo- 
notonous .  landscape.  More  tall  houses,  more 
jealous  walls,  occasional  glimpses  of  dull  court- 
yards and  prim  gardens  through  the  iron  gates, 
which  are  kept  as  carefully  locked  as  if  the  place 
were  in  a  state  of  siege.  The  last  of  these  man- 
sions, on  the  left  hand,  is  the  largest  and  gloom- 
iest of  all,  with  hideous  turrets  rising  above  the 
roofs,  and  knots  of  chimneys,  so  twisted  and  con- 
torted they  are  really  painful  to  look  at.  Within 
the  great  gates  a  dismally  clean  court,  a  garden 
at  the  right  and  back  of  the  dwelling,  but  a  gar- 
den as  dreary  as  a  churchyard,  with  tall  yew- 
trees  and  discolored  marble  vases,  that  remind 
one  of  funeral  urns. 

The  house  has  vast  corridors,  suites  of  rooms 
where  scarcely  an  article  looks  younger  than  the 
days  of  Cardinal  Mazarin — rooms  which  might 
be  imposing  enough  filled  with  bright  furniture 
and  gayly  dressed  crowds,  but  which  suggest  no 
more  idea  of  comfort  or  home  than  the  dreary 
old  convent  that  turns  its  back  virtuously  on  the 
dead  square  we  have  just  left. 

It  is  autumn  now — deep  in  November.  Just 
three  years  since  Monsieur  La  Tour  brought  his 
young  wife  to  this  dwelling,  which  to  him  is  so 
precious  and  beautiful. 

Only  a  twelvemonth  after  their  arrival  here 
Madame  L'Estrange  died  in  this  house,  and  so 
an  additional  sense  of  desolation  and  gloom 
darkens  it  to  Nathalie's  eyes.  That  was  a, 
strange  death-bed.  Nathalie  is  a  creature  whose 
emotions  are  usually  as  evanescent  as  they  are 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


91 


easy  to  excite,  but  to  this  day  she  shudders  when 
i;he  recalls  that  season.  The  weight  of  a  secret 
which  Madame  L'Estrange  had  carried  about 
her  so  long — only  once  breaking  the  silence  in 
a  few  vindictive  whispers  to  Mr.  Crauford  the 
day  they  met  in  the  Swiss  chalet — became  too 
oppressive  when  death  stared  her  in  the  face. 
Holding  fast  to  Nathalie  with  her  wasted  hands, 
transfixing  her  with  the  unnatural  fire  of  her 
sunken  eyes,  she  gasped  anew  the  secret,  and 
wrung  from  Nathalie  a  promise  which  both  knew 
there  was  scarcely  a  probability  Fate  would  ever 
put  within  the  girl's  power  to  fulfill. 

Can  Nathalie  ever  forget  that  scene  ?  Other 
memories  shall  come  and  go,  the  most  important 
events  of  life  will  leave  only  a  transitory  im- 
pression on  her  mind,  but  she  will  never  forget 
that  hour. 

She  is  thinking  of  it  now,  when  we  find  her 
sitting  out  in  the  dreary  garden,  a  book  lying 
unheeded  on  her  lap,  her  gaze  wandering  away 
toward  the  pile  of  gorgeous-tinted  sunset  clouds 
in  the  west.  She  never  pays  much  attention  to 
the  beautiful  in  nature  unless  there  is  some  one 
with  her  to  point  it  out.  She  is  so  occupied 
with  dreams  and  fancies,  which  always  have  her- 
self for  an  aim  and  centre,  that  she  has  slight 
leisure  for  any  thing  else  when  a  musing  fit 
seizes  her.  She  has  grown  a  more  hopeless  vis- 
ionary than  ever.  When  she  is  not  reading 
novels,  or  putting  her  wild  fancies  and  borrowed 
theories  upon  paper,  she  is  imagining  some  won- 
derful thing  which  is  to  happen — some  stirring 
sensation,  which  shall  shake  her  life  out  of  its 
present  monotony — make  her  a  heroine  of  ro- 
mance, whose  fate  will  afford  the  scribblers  of 
another  generation  ample  material  for  poems  and 
tragedies,  over  which  future  dreamers  will  mar- 
vel and  weep. 

Directly  after  Madame  L'Estrange's  death, 
her  husband  took  her  down  to  Italy.  They  vis- 
ited all  the  famous  cities — sailed  over  to  Sicily, 
and  Nathalie  wrote  an  account  of  her  wander- 
ings. Feminine  authorship  was  a  thing  opposed 
to  all  Monsieur  La  Tour's  creeds  and  prejudices, 
but  he  could  not  oppose  his  young  wife's  will. 
The  book  was  published  ;  a  noted  litterateur, 
who  had  been  fascinated  by  Nathalie  in  Rome, 
used  his  best  efforts  to  give  the  work  a  tempo- 
rary success.  Nathalie  tasted  the  first  draught 
of  a  most  intoxicating  cup  and  craved  more. 

After  the  return  from  Italy,  she  was  forced  to 
accept  existence  in  the  old  house  for  a  consider- 
able season.  Monsieur  La  Tour  was  seriously 
out  of  health,  and  the  physicians  insisted  upon 
his  remaining  here  to  try  the  beneficial  effects 
of  his  native  air.  But  the  spring  before  this 
period  of  which  I  mean  to  write  Nathalie  did 
succeed  in  getting  up  to  Paris,  and  obtained 
glimpses  of  excitement  and  gayety  which  ren- 
dered the  thought  of  life  in  this  dull  place  more 
insupportable.  She  had  written  a  little  romance, 


full  of  French  sentiment,  impossible  situations, 
theories  at  once  so  appalling  and  absurd  that  a 
reasonable  person  could  not  have  told  whether 
to  be  shocked  or  amused.  But  the  story  pos- 
sessed a  certain  grace  and  ease  of  style,  adroitly 
enough  modeled  upon,  that  of  one  of  the  most  fa- 
mous French  authors  of  our  day ;  and  this  book 
too  had  its  brief  triumph. 

There  remained  one  serious  drawback  to 
Nathalie's  satisfaction,  however — she  dared  not 
put  her  name  to  the  work.  She  was  afraid  both 
of  Monsieur  La  Tour's  anger  and  the  verdict  of 
people  whose  countenance  she  desired.  The 
book  was  one  which,  if  known  to  be  hers,  would 
have  left  no  society  open  to  her  outside  the  Bo- 
hemian literary  ranks  of  Paris ;  and  insane  as 
she  was  to  fling  off  her  shackles  and  be  free,  she 
dreaded  the  possible  results.  Marital  law  and 
the  authority  of  relatives  are  very  powerful  in 
France.  If  she  went  too  far,  she  might  find 
herself  deprived  of  her  freedom,  and  kept  so  se- 
curely confined  that  she  would  have  no  oppor- 
tunity even  to  make  her  woes  public. 

So  this  summer  she  came  back  to  the  old 
house.  What  a  life! — how  she  hates,  loathes, 
chafes  under  it! — breaks  often  into  active  re- 
bellion, and  renders  poor  Monsieur  La  Tour  the 
most  miserable  elderly  man  in  all  France.  He 
loved  her  so  fondly — he  loves  her  still ;  but  now 
he  knows  that  she  has  not  in  her  heart  so  much 
as  a  gleam  of  tolerance  for  him.  She  does  not 
attempt  to  disguise  the  truth  ;  she  taunts  him 
with  it  whenever  he  opposes  her  whims  or  one 
of  her  black  moods  seizes  her. 

She  execrates  the  staid,  respectable  people 
about — grand  titled  people,  who,  having  slight 
vestige  of  their  ancestors'  fortunes  left,  are  doubly 
grand  and  stately  to  atone  for  the  loss.  There 
are  dull  dinners  occasionally — evening  recep- 
tions, where  the  women  bring  their  embroidery 
into  the  cold,  gloomy  salons — where  weak  lem- 
onade and  sweetened  water  are  drunk — where 
girls  and  youthful  married  ladies  are  expected 
to  listen  submissively  to  their  elders — where 
Nathalie  is  regarded  with  a  certain  wonder  and 
doubt  because  she  has  written  a  book,  though 
every  body  is  kind  to  her  on  her  husband's  ac- 
count, and  few  even  among  the  women  can  re- 
sist her  loveliness  and  her  charms  when  she 
•  chooses  now  and  then  to  rouse  out  of  her  apathy 
and  dazzle  them  by  her  wit  and  her  marvelous 
powers  as  a  raconteuse—a  style  of  amusement 
irresistible  to  French  natures. 

How  long  shall  she  be  able  to  endure  it  ? 
That  is  the  question  Nathalie  asks  herself  over 
and  over.  Vain,  frivolous  in  many  ways,  Natha- 
lie is  an  odd  compound.  She  married  believing 
that  at  least  in  flirtation  she  should  find  a  con- 
stant source  of  amusement,  and  yet  even  when 
the  opportunity  offers  it  does  not  amuse  her. 
In  Rome  she  managed  to  make '  Monsieur  La 
Tour  several  times  uncomfortable,  but,  as  she 


92 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


told  herself,  le  jeu  ne  valalt  pas  la  chandeUe. 
In  Paris  the  same  effort  with  the  same  result. 
Into  the  dull  old  place  come  now  and  then  hand- 
some or  agreeable  youths  to  visit  their  relatives. 
Nathalie  subdues  these  at  once — horrifies  the 
whole  circle — distresses  her  husband  ;  but  she 
does  not  amuse  herself.  When  the  youths,  obe- 
dient to  the  creed  of  Frenchmen,  feel  it  their 
duty  to  make  love  to  her,  she  is  bored,  and  dis- 
covers that  they  are  vapid  and  shallow. 

What  the  girl  wants  is  universal  adulation :  to 
have  a  world  at  her  feet,  or  some  such  impossible 
nonsense.  The  applause  bestowed  upon  a  suc- 
cessful actress  would  be  delightful,  but  one  man's 
worship,  a  tete-a-tete  offender  words,  even  if  the 
situation  be  dramatic,  has  none  of  the  relish  she 
expected  it  to  possess. 

So  she  tells  herself  it  is  because  she  has  really 
loved,  and  she  moans  and  wrings  her  hands  and 
makes  a  god  of  Darrell  Vaughan's  memory,  and 
chooses  him  for  the  hero  of  her  novel,  and  enjoys 
all  the  misery  she  can  manage  to  procure. 

Here  she  sits  in  the  quaint  garden  to-night, 
as  pretty  a  picture  as  the  fancy  of  a  poet ;  older, 
more  matured  than  when  we  last  saw  her ;  not 
beautiful  according  to  strict  rules — far  from  it, 
indeed — but  with  an  inexplicable  charm  and 
witchery  about  her.  She  is  just  one  of  those  ex- 
ceptional natures,  those  impressionable  beings, 
who  seem  at  one  hour  animated  by  a  good  angel, 
the  next  possessed  by  a  demon.  Often  it  almost 
appears  as  if  such  creatures  were  brought  into 
the  world  to  work  evil,  while  always  straining 
after  some  unattainable  ideal — some  vast  theory 
which  shows  foul  and  false  under  the  glowing 
hues  in  which  its  devotees  enfold  it,  with  faith 
too,  many  of  them,  in  the  purity  and  right  of  its 
doctrines. 

There  she  sits,  perfectly  unconscious  that  a 
crisis  in  her  destiny  is  even  now  at  the  thresh- 
old— that  the  long-wishcd-for  cause  which  shall 
nerve  her  into  positive  revolt  has  at  last  ar- 
rived. 

She  is  roused  by  a  hasty  step  on  the  gravel 
walk — by  Susanne's  voice  close  at  her  side.  Su- 
sanne  is  little  changed,  only  that  she  is  very  gor- 
geous in  attire,  and  usually  very  grand  in  man- 
ner— putting  on  as  many  airs  with  the  servants 
of  Monsieur  La  Tour's  household  and  those  of 
the  neighborhood  as  if  she  had  always  been  con- 
fidential maid  to  the  Empress  of  Russia.  A 
more  unfortunate  person  for  Nathalie  to  have 
ahotit  could  not  be  found.  Susanne  delights  in 
plots  and  intrigues ;  is  ready  to  lie  to  any  ex- 
tent ;  enjoys  the  thousand  small  ways  in  which 
Nathalie  deceives  her  husband,  and  considers 
their  detention  in  this  dull  place  a  heartless  tyr- 
anny on  Monsieur's  part  which  deserves  condign 
puni.-hment. 

"Madame!  Madame!"  exclaims  Susanne, 
clattering  up  on  her  high  heels,  with  her  head- 
dress fluttering. 


"  How  you  startled  me !"  Nathalie  says,  peev- 
ishly. "  This  horrid  hole  is  so  still  that  the  least 
noise  makes  me  nervous." 

"  Chut!"  whispers  Susanne,  as  warningly  as 
if  there  were  somebody  near  to  listen,  quite  re- 
gardless of  the"  fact  that  she  shouted  at  the  top 
of  her  voice  as  she  ran  up.  "Come  this  way; 
something  has  happened." 

"What  "a  mercy!"  returned  Nathalie,  rising 
slowly.  "  Now  I  am  sure  it  is  just  a  bit  of  your 
nonsense  ;  tell  what  it  is,  and  be  done." 

But  Susanne  will  only  utter  hissing  exclama- 
tions, and  refuse  to  speak  till  she  has  drawn  her 
mistress  some  distance  from  the  house,  behind  a 
thicket  of  laurustinus.  Then  she  begins — 

"  I  saw  her  come  in ;  she  asked  for  Monsieur, 
so  I  knew  she  meant  mischief,  the  old  cat  ?  I 
just  whipped  into  the  little  passage  back  of  Mon- 
sieur's study — " 

"  Who  came  ? — what  do  you  mean  ?"  inter- 
rupts Nathalie,  giving  her  shoulder  an  impatient 
shake.  "  It  must  be  Madame  de  Mercceur,  I 
suppose." 

"She  divines  at  once!"  cried  Susanne,  tri- 
umphantly. "  Ah,  Madame  has  reason  to  sus- 
pect her  of  being  an  enemy — the  monkey-faced 
old  wretch!" 

"  She  has  come  to  tell  my  husband  about  Mon- 
sieur Frederic,  I  conclude,"  pursues  Nathalie. 
"  Well,  let  her ;  I  do  not  care." 

Madame  de  Mercoeur  is  a  countess  —  one  of 
the  magnates  of  the  place,  as  poor  as  Job  and 
proud  as  Lucifer.  She  has  always  been  kind  to 
Nathalie,  on  account  of  a  life -long  friendship 
with  Monsieur  La  Tour ;  but  she  has  never  liked 
her,  and  has  been  loud  in  her  diatribes  upon  the 
folly  of  that  worthy  gentleman  in  his  marriage. 
But  of  late  she  has  cause  to  feel  active  animosity 
toward  the  creature.  Less  than  a  month  since 
her  youngest  son,  a  naval  officer,  came  home, 
and  fell  hopelessly  blinded  by  the  first  of  Natha- 
lie's smiles.  In  the  end  Madame  surprised  the 
youth  in  the  garden  on  his  knees  before  the 
enchantress.  That  was  bad  enough ;  but  the 
crowning  sin  proved  Nathalie's  conduct  at  the 
discovery.  So  far  from  showing  confusion,  she 
appeared  triumphant  —  laughed  at  the  boy  and 
bearded  the  mother.  The  climax  had  come,  and 
Nathalie  was  not  sorry  that  Madame  pounced 
upon  the  scene.  It  had  been  all  very  well  to  let 
Monsieur  Frederic  write  her  letters,  to  reply  in 
pages  of  equally  exaggerated  trash  ;  but  to-day 
he  had  screwed  his  courage  up  to  the  point  of 
revealing  his  passion  in  open  language,  and,  as 
usual  when  an  adorer  reached  this  stage,  Natha- 
lie's interest  in  the  sport  flagged,  and  the  youth 
became  a  bore. 

Nathalie  has  not  scrupled  to  repeat  the  whole 
story  to  Susanne,  mimicking  the  Countess  and 
her  hopeful  to  the  life.  Indeed,  she  would  have 
revealed  it  just  as  unhesitatingly  to  her  husband, 
only  that  since  the  scene  she  has  chanced  to  be 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


93 


in  an  amiable  mood  where  he  is  concerned,  and 
does  not  wish  him  to  have  the  pain  of  giving  up 
his  old  fiiend's  society.  Madame  fled  from  the 
neighborhood  with  her  boy  the  day  after  her  dis- 
covery, but  Nathalie  had  this  morning  heard  of 
her  return,  and  is  not  in  the  least  astonished  at 
this  visit. 

"I  am  sorry  now  I  did  not  tell  Monsieur  my- 
self," she  says ;  "  but  after  all  it  is  of  no  conse- 
quence; let  Madame  make  her  moan." 

"Ah,  but  it  is  worse  than  that,"  cries  Su- 
sanne.  "  She  has  found  out  that  you  wrote  the 
book — they  are  quarreling." 

Nathalie  turns  pale,  but  answers  recklessly — 

"  It  had  to  come  sooner  or  later !  Well,  there 
is  nothing  he  can  do ;  he  dare  not  shut  me  up." 

"Men  dare  do  any  thing,"  answers  Susanne. 

"Not  with  a  woman  like  me !"  cried  Nathalie, 
proudly.  "Let  me  alone,  Susanne;  I  want  to 
think — I  must  reflect." 

Nathalie's  reflections  do  not  go  beyond  vague 
resolves  of  angry  defiance,  but  she  enjoys  the  ex- 
citement, alarmed  as  she  is,  and  even  contem- 
plates with  satisfaction  the  idea  of  martyrdom — 
not  carried  to  an  unpleasant  extent. 

Madame  de  Mercosur  has  not  rested  till  she 
found  some  weapon  wherewith  to  smite  her  inso- 
lent /oe.  Through  a  gossiping  correspondent 
she  has  learned  that  Nathalie  is  the  author  of 
the  much-talked-of  novel — a  work  which  the  co- 
terie of  the  select  in  Du  Bourg  regard  with  hor- 
ror. Monsieur  La  Tour  has  himself  publicly 
expressed  opinions  of  unusual  violence  concern- 
ing the  book,  declaring  it  unfit  for  any  woman 
to  read. 

Poor  Monsieur!  With  unscrupulous  ferocity 
Madame  intrudes  upon  his  quiet  and  pours  out 
her  tale.  The  little  idyl  in  which  Nathalie  has 
indulged  with  the  susceptible  Fre'de'ric  admits  of 
no  doubt.  There  are  the  letters ;  one  of  them  is 
held  before  Monsieur's  eyes ;  but  when  he  dis- 
covers what  it  is  he  turns  away.  The  story  in 
regard  to  the  authorship  of  the  romance  he  re- 
fuses to  credit,  though  in  his  heart  he  knows  that 
it  is  true. 

"To-night  I  shall  have  a  copy  of  the  journal 
which  gives  her  name,"  cries  Madame.  "We 
shall  see  what  you  can  say  then. " 

"It  will  be  no  proof,"  replies  Monsieur;  but 
his  troubled  heart  sinks  under  a  fresh  pang.  It 
seems  to  him  that  he  must  die  of  shame  and 
grief;  but  he  bears  up,  asserting  again  that  the 
story  will  be  found  to  have  no  foundation.  Ma- 
dame de  Mercoeur  pities  and  blames  him  all  in  a 
breath,  and  is  so  bitter  against  Nathalie  that  at 
last  he  fires  up,  and  more  than  hints,  though  with 
great  courtesy,  that  of  course  Nathalie's  youth, 
beauty,  and  great  talents  render  her  a  mark  for 
the  envious  to  shoot  arrows  at — those  unhappy 
ones  who  have  lost  their  beauty,  and  possess  no 
especial  mental  gifts  to  supply  its  place.  This 
is  hard  on  Madame,  who  has  been  a  belle  in  her 


day.  She  fires  up  hi  her  turn,  and  tells  him 
roundly  that  the  whole  set — all  this  great  world 
in  little  —  has  decided  to  countenance  Nathalie 
no  longer.  Her  conduct  has  brought  misery 
into  more  than  one  hitherto  peaceful  household  ; 
strange  stories  in  regard  to  her  birth  have  been 
for  some  time  afloat ;  this  history  of  her  author- 
ship has  added  the  crowning  sin  to  her  wrong- 
doing !  Nathalie  is  to  be  tabooed — made  a  so- 
cial pariah  ;  the  magnates  of  Du  Bourg  will  send 
her  to  the  wall,  and  gather  their  garments  close- 
ly about  them  as  they  pass,  lest  her  touch  should 
contaminate  their  purity. 

Then  Monsieur  rises,  and,  pale  as  death,  asks 
his  visitor  if  she  have  any  other  communication 
with  which  to  honor  him.  She  accepts  the  hint, 
and  goes  out  with  scanty  leave-taking.  Though 
even  in  the  height  of  his  wrath  and  pain,  Mon- 
sieur can  not  forget  his  old-fashioned  ceremo- 
nious politeness.  His  icy  courtesy  brings  Ma- 
dame a  little  to  her  senses — she  is  not  to  be  out- 
done in  that  line,  and  their  bows  and  obeisance 
are  a  sight  to  behold. 

The  door  closes ;  Monsieur  falls  back  into  his 
fauteuil,  and  sits  there,  looking  five  years  older 
than  he  did  an  hour  ago — sits  pressing  his  hands 
to  his  forehead,  trying  to  collect  his  thoughts,  to 
decide  upon  some  course  which  shall  be  at  once 
right  and  as  merciful  as  he  can  make  it  toward 
Nathalie. 

The  room  ig  filled  with  the  gray  shadows  of 
twilight  before  he  rouses  himself  from  his  medi- 
tation— is  roused  from  it  rather  by  the  measures 
of  a  clear,  youthful  voice  which  float  up  from  the 
garden.  Nathalie  is  returning  to  the  house, 
singing  in  very  recklessness  and  defiance.  Jnst 
then  a  servant  taps  at  the  door — enters  with  a 
parcel,  ard  Madame  de  Mercceur's  compliments ; 
she  sends  the  journal  of  which  she  was  speaking 
to  Monsieur.  Madame  has  had  the  decency  to 
seal  the  newspaper,  that  it  may  be  safe  from  the 
prying  eyes  of  the  domestics. 

"  Will  Monsieur  have  lights  ?"  Monsieur  only 
shakes  his  head  ;  the  roll  which  the  servant  has 
placed  in  his  hand  drops  from  the  nerveless  fin- 
gers. The  man  thinks  Monsieur  lays  the  package 
on  the  table ;  but  it  is  not  so.  He  has  reached 
the  door,  then  his  master  speaks  for  the .  first 
time. 

"  Mes  compliments  respectueux  a  Madame ;  if 
she  is  not  occupied,  I  should  be  glad  if  she  would 
come  and  read  to  me  for  a  while." 

The  sen-ant  goes  out ;  Monsieur  bows  his  head 
on  his  hands,  and  sits  still.  Presently  there  is  a 
light  step  in  the  stone  gallery — the  tones  of  the 
merry  song  which  reached  him  from  the  garden 
a  little  time  before  again  fill  the  sombre  room 
with  their  melody.  The  wrinkled  hands  which 
support  the  head,  grown  so  gray  during  the  past 
year,  shake  nervously,  but  he  does  not  stir. 

Once  more  the  door  opens ;  Nathalie  pauses 
on  the  threshold  to  exclaim — 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


"What  a  dungeon  of  a  room  —  like  all  the 
rooms  in  this  old  den !  If  I  am  compelled  to 
live  here  much  longer,  I  shall  pitch  a  tent  in  the 
garden ;  that  is  bad  enough,  but  it  is  a  degree 
better  than  this  awful  barrack." 

"  You  do  not  like  this  house  ?"  Monsieur  says, 
seizing  upon  the  chance  her  words  have  made  to 
get  at  once  to  his  purpose.  "  You  would  not 
inind  going  away  ?" 

"Mind!  Why  Patagonia,  wherever  it  is, 
would  be  Paradise  compared  to  this  place." 
Nathalie  is  rather  nervous  —  somewhat  fright- 
ened ;  but  she  keeps  up  a  show  of  courage  — 
overdoes  it,  in  fact,  so  that  it  looks  like  bravado. 
"  Martin  said  you  wanted  me  to  read  to  you — 
I  must  have  a  lamp." 

"One  moment,  please!     Come  in,  Nathalie." 

She  enters,  and  closes  the  door. 

"  Well,  then !"  she  says  in  her  defiant  voice. 

"  About  going  away  first,"  he  continues,  look- 
ing at  her  with  a  gaze  so  wistful  and  sad  that  it 
ought  to  soften  her  heart ;  but  she  is  not  in  a 
mood  to  be  touched.  "  I  think  it  may  happen," 
he  goes  on  slowly,  after  another  pause ;  "indeed, 
I  can  see  no  other  course  to  pursue,  at  least  for 
a  time." 

"So  much  the  better !"  she  cries.  "  We  shall 
go  to  Paris."  . 

"  No,  Nathalie ;  to  Languedoc — to  my  sister's. " 

"What!"  she  almost  shrieks,  preparing  to 
rush  into  a  fury  without  loss  of  time.  She  has 
subdued  him  before  this  by  a  display  of  temper; 
he  so  dreads  to  see  her  behave  unworthily  that 
he  often  yields  a  point  to  escape  the  humiliation 
— perhaps  he  will  now.  "  To  your  sister's — the 
awfulest  old  dragon  in  all  France !  I'll  not  go — 
I  remember  my  one  visit  there !  I  tell  you  I  will 
not  go  —  I'd  rather  stay  here  even  than  endure 
that  purgatory." 

"Unfortunately,  you  have  rendered  it  impos- 
sible," he  says,  still  speaking  in  the  same  slow, 
sad  fashion — he  is  too  depressed  and  broken  for 
anger.  "  We  must  go  away  for  a  while.  I  will 
even  relieve  you  of  my  presence,  but  I  must  place 
you  under  proper  guardianship.  There  is  no  one 
so  fit  as  my  sister — no  one  who,  misjudge  her  as 
you  may,  will  prove  so  kind,  so  lenient  a  friend, 
if  you  permit  her." 

"And  now,  having  announced  your  lordly 
will,  perhaps  you  will  condescend  to  explain  what 
all  this  means,"  cries  Nathalie.  "  You  can  nei- 
ther drive  nor  frighten  me,  I  warn  you  ;  I  am  not 
a  woman  of  that  sort." 

"  Child,  child !"  he  says,  reprovingly,  yet  with 
a  quiver  of  pity  in  his  voice,  as  if  trying  to  soften 
his  own  judgment  in  regard  to  her  by  this  name. 

"Let  us  get  at  the  bottom  of  the  matter  at  l> 
once,"  pursues  Nathalie,  hotly.  "  That  old  de- 
mon, Madame  de  Mercoeur,  has  been  with  you. 
What  f.Usdiood  did  she  bring  this  time?  Brave 
man  —  gentlemanly  conduct  to  listen  to  com- 
plaints of  your  own  wife!" 


She  will  neither  coax  nor  plead  ;  she  will  bear 
down  upon  him  with  the  full  weight  of  her  will ; 
he  shall  yield — beg  for  forgiveness;  Madame, 
and  all  the  rest  of  her  enemies,  shall  see  that 
their  malice  has  only  served  to  leave  him  a  more 
submissive  slave  than  ever. 

He  does  not  recriminate ;  one  might  almost 
think  he  had  not  heard  her  cruel  words,  only 
that  the  gray  head  bows  lower,  and  the  sad  eyes, 
which  watch  her  always,  grow  misty  and  dim. 
His  hand  stretches  out  and  takes  up  the  news- 
paper— he  breaks  the  seal.  He  has  no  need  to 
search  for  the  paragraph  he  wants — Madame  has 
folded  the  journal  so  that  it  meets  the  eye  as  it  is 
opened,  and  she  has  drawn  a  wide  line  about  it 
with  very  black  ink  into  the  bargain. 

"  Will  you  read  this  ?"  he  says,  his  utterance 
growing  still'more  difficult. 

Nathalie  takes  the  paper — goes  closer  to  the 
window,  and  glances  at  the  marked  paragraph. 
She  is  so  delighted  with  seeing  her  name,  so 
charmed  by  the  fulsome  compliments  paid  her 
beauty  and  genius,  that  she  absolutely  forgets 
the  danger  which  menaces  her,  and  cries  out 
ecstatically — 

"Oh, how  it  praises  me! — signed  'R.Y.'  Why 
that  is  Monsieur  Yalmont,  the  most  celebrated 
critic  in  France." 

"  Nathalie!"  The  name  is  groaned  out  with 
such  mingled  pain  and  horror  that  she  comes 
back  to  her  senses.  She  remembers  the  exigen- 
cies of  the  moment — is  more  angry  than  ever  at 
the  idea  of  restraint  or  opposition  just  when  such 
incense  and  triumph  are  offered  her. 

"  So  this  was  the  old  cat's  errand  !"  she  cries. 
"JE'A  bien  ! — afterward  ?  You  have  not  read  it ; 
stay,  you  shall  hear  how  the  world  estimates  the 
woman  you  and  your  miserable  idiots  of  neigh- 
hoi's  deem  a  child — a  frivolous  butterfly,  that 
needs  counsel  and  guidance.  Listen  then !" 

"No,  no;  I  don't  want  to  hear,"  he  exclaims, 
brokenly. 

" '  The  much-talked-of  romance, "  Le  premier 
Pas,"  whose  audacious  theories  astonished  lim- 
ited intellects  as  much  as  its  pathos  and  dramatic 
plot  touched  heart  and  imagination — ' " 

"Nathalie!  Nathalie!" 

But  she  reads  on  unheeding — 

'"This  eloquent  appeal  against  the  unjust 
tyranny  of  our  social  laws — this  bitter,  ironical 
exposition  of  the  iron  rule  of  marriage — ' " 

"I  tell  you  I  will  not  listen  !"  he  interrupts. 

"Bah!"  she  cries,  contemptuously.  "Of 
course  you  can  not  understand  or  appreciate ! 
Skip  that  part  then.  'This  work,  assigned  to 
so  many  different  writers,  is.  we  are  credibly  in- 
formed, the  production  of  a  lady  already  favor- 
ably known  as  the  author  of  "A  Winter  in 
Italy" — a  lady  whose  beauty,  grace,  and  varied 
charms  for  a  little  time  last  spring  fascinated 
the  literary  circles  of  Paris — '" 

"  Nathalie  !  I  beg !  I  entreat !" 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


'"A  certain  Madame  Nathalie  La  Tour,'" 
continues  the  young  voice,  shrill  with  triumph. 
'"One  sees  that  she  has  written  from  her  in- 
most heart.  The  details  of  an  actual  experience 
are  here  unfolded.  She  transcribes  u  drama 
which  she  has  lived.  She — '" 

By  a  sudden  movement  Monsieur's  tremhling 
hands  almost  succeed  in  wresting  the  paper  from 
her.  She  retreats,  calling  out — 

"You  shall  hear!  you  shall!  Listen  to  this 
bit :  '  She  has  placed  herself  among  the  fore- 
most diseiplas  of  the  school  to  which  so  many 
of  our  great  writers  belong.  She  boldly  avows 
her  hatred  of  the  tyranny  of  marriage  ;  her 
belief  that  love  is  too  hdy  and  powerful  to  be 
shackled  by  men's  petty  laws — ' " 

She  is  interrupted  again ;  it  is  only  a  groan 
this  time.  Still  she  reads  on  from  another  sen- 
tence that  has  caught  her  eye. 

"'The  incidents  of  the  heroine's  marriage, 
the  selling  of  her  to  a  rich,  elderly  man,  the 
defeat  of  her  lover's  efforts  to  save  her,  are  all 
said  to  be  actual  experiences — ' " 

"It  is  not  true — at  least  that  is  not  true." 

"  It  is !"  she  cried,  flinging  the  journal  down  ; 
"it  is  true!  There,  then,  do  your  worst!  I 
have  suffered  enough — been  submissive  too  long; 
1  will  give  my  wrongs  full  voice  at  last." 

She  stops,  alarmed  at  the  possible  consequences 
of  her  own  recklessness,  but  the  bowed  form  be- 
fore her  does  not  stir.  She  picks  up  the  news- 
paper and  hides  it  in  her  pocket ;  this  tribute  to 
her  vanity  is  too  precious  to  be  rudely  treated. 
Then  she  hears  a  rustling  of  other  papers.  She 
sees  that  Monsieur  is  extending  toward  her  a 
package  which  she  recognizes  at  once — her  let- 
ters to  Monsieur  Frede'ric.  One  of  them  has 
been  separated  from  the  rest^it  is  open. 

"I  have  not  read  these,"  Monsieur  says; 
' '  that  single  page  I  read ;  it  was  placed  in  my 
hand  before  I  knew  what  it  was." 

Nathalie's  quick  eyes  fasten  on  it ;  a  passage 
in  which  she  bemoans  the  weariness  of  her  life 
— the  utter  lack  of  sympathy  with  her  husband ; 
a  rhodomontade  as  overstrained  and  untrue  as 
possible,  though  she  tried  to  believe  herself  in 
earnest  as  she  wrote. 

"  Go  on — go  on !"  she  says.  "What  do  you 
mean  to  do  now  ?" 

"Take  your  letters,  Nathalie,"  he  answers; 
and  still  no  thrill  of  anger  sharpens  his  mournful 
voice.  "Child,  child,  I  have  tried  to  see  what 
was  best  to  do.  I  want  to  act  aright.  It  is  so 
hard  to  know !  I  can  not  leave  you  to  yourself 
— to  the  consequences  of  your  mad  folly." 

"Are  you  silly  enough  to  suppose  I  cared  for 
that  young  idiot  ?"  she  asks.  "  The  coward,  to 
give  up  those  letters  !  You  ought  to  kill  him ! 
I  played  a  little  drama  just  to  tease  his  mother." 

"  I  know — I  know.  Of  what  men  call  sin  in 
a  wife,  I  hold  you  innocent,  Nathalie.  I  am  not 
thinking  of  that.  If  I  were  your  father  I  could 


not  be  more  anxious  to  help  you.  I  can  see  but 
one  way." 

"To  send  me  to  Languedoc ?     I'll  not  go." 

"Here  we  can  not  stay',  Nathalie.  I  could 
not  live  among  my  old  friends  and  see  my  wife 
avoided  ;  the  talk  of  every  servant's  tongue  ;  the 
scorn  of  those  I  honor  and  love — " 

"Your  friends  are  idiots, fossiles,"  she  breaks 
in.  "Take  me  among  real  live  men  and  women 
of  our  century — people  who  can  comprehend  me. 
Let  me  have  my  life !" 

"Never!  I  put  aside  the  danger  you  would 
run — the  sin  on  my  part  of  throwing  you  in  the 
way  of  temptation — " 

"Bah!" 

"But  I  can  not  as  a  Christian,  as  I  fear  to 
offend  my  God,  aid  you  in  promulgating  the 
dreadful  theories  you  have  imbibed  from  bad 
books — theories  whose  evil  you  do  not  half  un- 
derstand. " 

"You  forget  to  whom  you  speak!"  she  in- 
terrupts again.  "  You  have  the  honor  to  be 
allied  to  a  woman  who  has  already  given  proofs 
of  her  talent !  Do  not  presume  to  set  your  puny 
judgment,  your  old-time  scruples  and  supersti- 
tions, against  the  verdict  of  the  world." 

"Ah,  child,  can  you  not  see !  You  have  only 
gained  a  little  notoriety  among  a  set  of  people 
glad  to  hail  a  young,  respectable  girl  as  one  of 
themselves  :  this  is  not  fame — this  is  not  literary 
reputation." 

"My  book  has  been  translated  into  Italian 
and  English,*"  she  exclaims.  "  I  saw  only  the 
other  day  that  it  had  run  through  three  editions 
in  America !  I  have  another  finished — ah,  what 
a  work !  It  shall  be  published  too — your  tyranny 
can  not  prevent  that." 

"If  it  inculcate  similar  doctrines,  I  must  pre- 
vent it,"  he  replies.  "Write  books  fit  for  a 
woman  to  pen,  for  women  to  read,  and  I  will  not 
interfere." 

"  I  defy  you !"  she  cries. 

"  Then  you  must  listen  to  my  will,  and 
you  must  obey,"  he  answers.  "  Nathalie,  in 
France  a  wife  can  not  easily  dispute  her  hus- 
band's law.  Painful  as  it  is,  I  must  insist  on 
obedience." 

She  laughs  aloud  as  she  stands  before  him,  her 
eyes  dilated,  her  face  convulsed  with  passion. 

"  Let  me  hear  your  will — your  regal  decree !'' 

"  If  you  could  only  trust  in  my  tenderness — • 
if  you  could  believe  what  my  age  and'experience 
make  clear  to  me,"  he  pleads. 

"Genius  has  no  need  of  either,"  returns  Natha- 
lie, grandly;  "its  intuitions  are  unfailing." 

"You  have  a  whole  life  before  you,"  he  con- 
tinues. "  The  time  must  come  when  you  will 
see  in  their  full  horror  the  ideas  and  theories 
which  look  so  beautiful  to  you  now — " 

"Which  are  to  become  the  hope  of  the  future," 
she  breaks  in  again,  with  a  majesty  that  would 
have  amused  a  less  interested  listener.  "I 


96 


ME.  VAUGIIAN'S  HEIK. 


expect  persecution  —  nil  reformers  and  apostles 
must ;  I  do  uot  shrink. " 

"The  time  to  die  will  come  at  last,"  he  goes 
on,  unheeding  her  interruptions,  his  voice  grow- 
ing lower  and  more  tremulous.  "Child,  there 
are  sins  enough  which  affect  one's  own  soul  to 
repent  at  that  hour;  do  not  add  to  the  weight 
the  awful  memory  fliat  by  your  written  words 
you  have  done  incalculable  harm  to  the  souls  of 
others." 

"I  can  not  argue  with  you,"  retorts  she  con- 
temptuously. "  It  is  useless  to  attempt  to  make 
you  understand !  Yours  is  a  narrow,  priest-rid- 
den nature — I  am  a  philosopher  :  the  very  word 
is  beyond  your  comprehension." 

Absurd  as  the  speech  is,  he  can  not  smile ;  he 
can  only  grieve  over  her  blindness  and  perversity, 
wondering  by  what  means  he  may  save  her  from 
herself — from  the  effect  of  evil  teachings  and  evil 
books. 

"Let  us  end  the  discussion  here,"  he  says 
wearily;  " for  the  present,  at  least." 

"I  told  you  arguments  were  useless,"  she  re- 
plies, almost  ready  to  believe  that  she  has  con- 
quered, and  will  be  allowed  to  pursue  her  own 
course  unmolested.  But  the  flattering  delusion 
is  quickly  dispelled,  for  Monsieur  adds — 

"As  soon  as  you  can  prepare,  we  will  set  out 
on  our  journey." 

"What?"  she  cries. 

"I  told  you  we  could  not  remain  here — it  is 
impossible ;  we  must  go  without  delay." 

"To  Languedoc ?" 

He  bows  his  head. 

Nathalie  stands  for  an  instant^  dumb  with  rage 
and  terror,  then  bursts  into  a  torrent  of  angry 
speeches  which  he  does  not  notice.  She  sweeps 
out  of  the  chamber,  and  leaves  him  alone  in  his 
grief  and  desolation — the  terrible  solitude  of  an 
old  man,  whose  one  hope  of  earthly  happiness 
has  been  dashed  into  ruins. 

"  It  has  come  at  last, "  Nathalie  says  this  night 
to  Susanne.  "  At  least  I  can  depend  on  you.  I 
have  already  arranged  a  plan— he  shall  not  wreck 
my  life  in  its  very  opening." 

"How  will  you  manage,  Madame?"  asks  Su- 
sanne, greatly  impressed  by  her  looks  and  words. 
"What  will  you  do?" 

"Do?"'  she  repeats.  "Go  to  America— he 
can  not  touch  me  there :  to  America ! 

But  even  as  she  utters  the  name  her  mother's 
dying  words  come  back,  and  Nathalie  shivers  and 
turns  pale,  mad  and  reckless  as  she  is. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

I.  At   NCK'S    PICTUKE8. 

IT  often  happens,  especially  in  the  history  of 
married  lives,  that  even  when  some  important 
crisis  breached  no  events  of  consequence  follow, 


although  at  first  it  has  seemed  impossible  that 
existence  should  ever  settle  back  into  the  groove 
from  which  it  has  been  so  rudely  shaken. 

After  that  interview  with  her  husband,  in  sight 
of  the  empty  grave  whicli  his  greed  for  wealth  had 
violated,  Elizabeth  Vaughan  went  home.  For  sev- 
eral days  she  was  left  to  herself ;  then  Darrell  re- 
turned, but  was  called  away  immediately  to  Wash- 
ington, so  that  almost  up  to  the  time  for  their  de- 
parture into  the  country  she  was  granted  a  sea- 
son of  solitude. 

She  needed  this  season  to  reflect — to  face  her 
life  with  its  present  pain,  its  future  dreary  possi- 
bilities. The  hero  about  whom  she  had  tried  to 
cast  a  glow  of  enthusiasm  so  bright  and  warm 
that  she  could  believe  even  her  heart  joined  in  the 
worship  was  flung  down  from  his  pedestal  for- 
ever. One  course  remained — the  fulfillment  of 
her  wifely  duty ;  and  to  satisfy  her  conscience  this 
could  take  no  narrow  scope.  She  must  put  from 
her  mind  bitterness  and  wrath ;  she  must  strug- 
gle against  contempt  and  distrust.  It  was  very 
hard,  but  she  did  try — faithfully,  constantly. 

When  Darrell  reached  home  he  found  her 
tranquil,  cheerful,  and  no  allusion  was  made  to 
their  last  meeting. 

The  summer  went,  the  autumn  came,  the  win- 
ter, with  its  round  of  society  duties,  which,  under 
other  circumstances,  might  have  possessed  a  cer- 
tain pleasure  for  Elizabeth,  if  only  she  were  not 
forced  to  think  she  was  wasting  the  time. 

Most  people  regarded  her  as  a  beautiful  statue, 
with  nearly  as  few  human  sympathies  as  her  stone 
prototype.  The  few  who  learned  to  know  her 
marveled  what  struggle  was  going  on  in  the  pure 
soul ;  but  she  made  no  confidences. 

Scenes  between  Vaughan  and  herself  were  rare; 
now  and  then  his  fiery  temper  broke  out,  but  or- 
dinarily peace  reigned  in  the  house.  He  was 
less  and  less  at  home.  Business,  pleasure,  led 
him  about,  and  his  numerous  schemes  occupied 
him  greatly.  He  was  a  very  successful  man — 
honored,  courted.  This  period  was  the  heyday 
of  his  triumph.  Few  reports  to  his  discredit  got 
abroad  ;  he  was  still  careful  in  his  conduct.  Eliz- 
abeth's empire  was  rapidly  wearing  away.  There 
were  times  still  when  her  beauty  filled  him  with 
fierce  passion,  and  he  could  scarcely  tell  whether 
he  loved  or  hated  her — when  he  would  have  burn- 
ed her  soul  up' under  his  kisses  if  he  could. 

Elizabeth  Vaughan  lived  to  endure  the  most 
horrible  form  of  degradation  which  can  befall  a 
pure  woman,  and  pure  as  she  was,  she  could  not 
shut  the  humiliating  truth  from  her  soul.  She 
belonged  to  a  man  who  prized  her  beauty  because 
it  appealed  to  his  sensual  nature — valued  her  men- 
tal gifts  only  as  they  could  be  employed  in  his 
sen-ice.  A  slave  in  an  Eastern  seraglio  could  not 
have  been  placed  on  a  coarser  level,  and  here  this 
woman  had  to  live. 

Thwarted  in  every  laudable  ambition ;  fetter- 
ed even  in  the  expenditure  of  money  which  was 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


97 


her  own ;  obliged  always  to  preserve  for  the 
world's  sake,  for  duty's  sake,  the  semblance  of 
respect,  an  appearance  of  trust  in  what  she  knew 
to  be  the  hollowest  sham  ever  hidden  under  a 
golden  exterior,  lest  it  should  be  her  hand  that 
rent  the  veil  and  showed  him  to  his  fellows  as  he 
really  was,  thereby  rendering  him  so  utterly  des- 
perate that  no  chance  of  redemption  would  re- 
main. 

And  she  still  tried  to  hope  for  this ;  tried  to 
believe  that  he  would  grow  out  of  his  faults ;  and 
always  just  when  some  noble  word,  some  worthy 
act,  seemed  to  promise  a  fulfillment,  a  cruel  fate 
would  force  the  truth  upon  her,  and  she  was  doom- 
ed to  see  plainly  the  selfish  motive,  the  studied 
craft  hidden  beneath. 

Her  life  was  not  an  idle  one.  She  gave  not 
only  all  the  money  she  could  for  the  charitable  pur- 
poses which  had  been  the  dream  of  her  girlhood, 
but  actual  superintendence,  real,  honest  work,  to 
atone  for  the  limited  means  in  her  control. 

The  season  advanced.  Of  course  there  was  the 
usual  round  of  balls  and  dinners ;  constant  fes- 
tivities at  their  own  house  or  abroad.  Elizabeth 
did  her  part — perfect  in  dress,  calm  and  dignified 
in  demeanor ;  and  so  the  days  passed. 

It  was  toward  spring  once  more  when  business 
brought  Mr.  Carstoe  on  from  California  —  the 
first  time  he  had  visited  the  East  in  many  years. 
Vaughan  had  need  of  his  services  in  some  com- 
pany or  project.  He  could  trust  Carstoe's  hon- 
esty and  ability ;  and  where  the  former  quality 
at  least  was  concerned,  Vaughan's  faith  in  most 
of  his  kind  was  exceedingly  limited. 

Carstoe  was  often  at  the  house,  a  devout  ad- 
mirer of  Elizabeth's ;  and  she  learned  to  enjoy 
greatly  his  quaint  conversation,  and  to  appreciate 
the  stern  integrity  and  perfect  uprightness  of  his 
character.  Not  an  extraordinaiy  person  in  other 
respects,  Carstoe  impressed  one  as  far  beyond  the 
commonrun  of  humanity  as  regarded  these  virtues. 
It  was  a  keen  pleasure  to  Elizabeth  to  study  his 
nature  for  this  reason ;  a  comfort,  in  the  midst  of 
the  dissimulation  and  scheming  which  surround- 
ed her,  to  watch  this  grave,  plain,  elderly  man,  so 
firm  to  his  convictions,  so  honest  to  his  word. 
Absolutely  his  society  gave  her  a  feeling  of  rest. 
Most  things  on  which  she  had  placed  her  faith 
looked  so  shifting  and  unstable  that  his  immov- 
able rectitude  was  like  a  prop  to  her  tired  soul. 

Mr.  Carstoe  was  the  most  unassuming  of  men 
— proud,  too,  in  his  quiet  fashion,  and  utterly  in- 
capable of  pushing  or  forgetting  his  position ;  but 
he  was  rather  petted  by  both  husband  and  wife, 
and  their  kindness  and  consideration  came  like  a 
gleam  of  sunshine  into  the  loneliness  of  his  life. 

Mr.  Carstoe's  respect  and  admiration  for  Vaugh- 
an were  as  unbounded  as  ever.  If  he  could  have 
brought  himself  to  accuse  Mrs.  Vaughan's  char- 
acter of  a  fault,  it  would  have  been  on  account  of 
her  manner  to  her  husband.  She  was  unfailing 
in  all  essentials  of  deference  and  respect,  but  less 
G 


impulsive  and  demonstrative  than  Carstoe  (always 
a  little  visionary  when  love  and  marriage  were 
concerned)  could  have  wished.  But  he  felt  cer- 
tain it  was  only  her  manner ;  of  course  she  loved 
him,  and  they  were  a  very  happy  couple  :  Car- 
stoe would  have  gone  to  the  stake  in  support  of 
that  belief. 

Side  by  side  on  the  elevation  which  Vaughan 
and  his  wife  occupied  in  his  esteem,  Mr.  Carstoe 
placed  Launce  Cromlin.  Naturally  he  could  not 
be  long  in  the  society  of  Launce's  relatives  with- 
out mentioning  the  young  man's  name.  It  was 
the  first  time  Elizabeth  had  ever  heard  it  spoken 
except  joined  to  slighting  allusions  or  open  con- 
demnation. Her  father  had  told  her  something  of 
Darrell's  cousin.  As  Mr.  Crauford  had  made  a 
bete  noire  of  Launce,  he  was  loud  in  his  censure  : 
according  to  him,  Launce  was  a  cross  between 
Caligula  and  a  modern  rake.  When  she  asked 
Vaughan,  his  hesitation  and  hints  were  as  ex- 
pressive as  her  father's  sweeping  though  vague 
censures.  Of  the  reasons  for  his  uncle's  distrust 
she  knew  nothing,  and  indeed  she  forgot  all  about 
Launce  Cromlin  until  Mr.  Carstoe  brought  his 
name  abruptly  into  the  conversation. 

"Didn't  know  he  was  in  America,"  Vaughan 
said. 

"He  is  not,  but  he  has  sent  several  pictures 
over,  and  they  are  attracting  great  attention," 
Mr.  Carstoe  replied.  "The  very  best  judges 
pronounce  that  he  has  won  for  himself  a  foremost 
place  among  our  artists. " 

"Really  I  have  not  even  heard  the  paintings 
mentioned,"  Darrell  observed,  disdainfully. 

"They  are  only  recently  arrived — yesterday's 
papers  began  to  speak  of  them ;  but  they  had 
been  exhibited  in  London,  and  they  established 
his  reputation  there." 

"  Dear  me ;  well,  I  am  very  glad  that  Launce 
lias  won  a  little  notice,  however  ephemeral,"  re- 
turned Vaughan,  carelessly. 

Nothing  is  perfect — there  are  specks  on  the 
sun.  The  one  blemish  to  Darrell's  perfection  in 
Mr.  Carstoe's  eyes  was  this  underrating  of  his 
cousin.  But  he  was  too  wise  to  make  matters 
worse  by  arguments  or  expostulations. 

"I  suppose  you  have  not  seen  Mr.  Cromlin 's 
pictures  yet?"  he  said,  turning  to  Mrs. Vaughan. 

Elizabeth  roused  herself — she  was  falling  into 
the  bad  habit  of  growing  abstracted  and  preoc- 
cupied. During  the  last  half-hour,  while  the  two 
men  talked,  her  thoughts  had  been  traveling 
worlds  away,  or  brooding  drearily  over  the  life 
which  looked  so  different  from  her  girlish  dreams 
— the  life  so  void  of  fruition  that  it  was  hard  to 
be  patient — hard  to  remember  that  "  they  al»o 
serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

Several  times  while  conversing,  Mr. Carstoe  had 
glanced  at  her  in  a  meditative,  questioning  way. 
He  had  been  some  weeks  now  in  the  habit  of  see- 
ing her  daily,  and  of  late,  absurd  as  it  seemed,  he 
had  occasionally  caught  himself  wondering  if  it 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


were  possible  that  her  happiness  and  content  could 
be  less  complete  than  he  had  supposed  them. 

It  was  growing  a  very  sad  countenance,  that 
beautiful  face  of  Elizabeth's— graver  than  suited 
her  youthful  loveliness  ;  acquiring,  too,  a  self- 
restrained  expression,  which  ordinary  observers 
called  pride  and  haughtiness,  but  it  possessed  a 
different  significance  to  the  few  capable  of  closer, 
clearer  judgment. 

More  than  once  Darrell  had  glanced  toward 
her  likewise,  but  with  a  feeling  of  irritation  which 
he  found  it  difficult  to  restrain.  He  was  talk- 
ing particularly  well,  and  it  irked  his  vanity  to 
perceive  that  he  had  only  one  listener.  Had 
there  been  twenty  people  in  the  room,  and  a  sin- 
gle person  among  them  appeared  indifferent  to 
his  eloquence,  he  would  have  been  annoyed.  But 
this  increasing  habit  of  absorption  or  reverie  on 
Elizabeth's  part  irritated  him  hugely.  It  was  as 
if  her  soul  soared  off  beyond  his  control ;  and 
though  what  he  called  love  was  rapidly  wearing 
out  of  his  heart  or  fancy,  he  chose  to  dominate 
her  still. 

So  now,  when  she  started  a  little  as  Mr.  Car- 
stoe  roused  her  suddenly  by  speaking  her  name, 
Darrell  said  with  a  laugh — 

"  She  has  not  heard  a  syllable !  My  wife  looks 
a  sibyl,  and  is  as  abstracted  as  a  Sappho. " 

It  sounded  only  like  pleasant  raillery  to  other 
ears,  but  the  remark  was  meant  to  sting,  and 
Elizabeth  understood  its  full  significance.  The 
more  he  taxed  her  talents  in  his  service,  the  more 
he  sneered  covertly  at  her  powers,  making  it  evi- 
dent that  he  considered  her  devoured  by  vanity 
and  self-esteem  for  which  her  mental  gifts  or 
achievements  offered  no  foundation. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Carstoe?"  returned 
she,  interrogatively. 

"1  was  speaking  of  Mr.  Cromlin's  pictures," 
Carstoe  answered. 

"Lannce,  you  know  —  my  cousin,"  Vaughan 
explained,  with  a  polite  sneer  in  his  voice :  it  was 
always  there  when  he  spoke  of  his  relative. 

"Yes,"  Elizabeth  said.  " I  have  seen  a  few 
of  his  pictures  since  we  came  back  to  America ; 
they  seemed  to  me  to  show  great  talent." 

."Now  that  settles  the  matter!"  laughed 
Vanghan. 

Mr.  Carstoe  laughed  too,  thinking  the  words 
a  merry  jest,  under  which,  while  pretending  to 
sjxyik  lightly  of  his  wife's  judgment,  his  great 
love  and  admiration  for  her  were  plainly  visible. 
He  worshiped  the  beautiful  woman  —  Mr.  Car- 
stoe knew  this.  Elizabeth  paid  no  attention 
whatever;  did  not  seem  to  hear;  though  she 
never  grew  hardened  against  such  petty  insults 
from  her  husband,  however  much  she  might  de- 
spise them— a  proof  that  she  still  had  some  feel- 
ing left  where  he  was  concerned. 

She  went  on  quietly  speaking  of  the  paintings 
to  Mr.  Carstoe. 

• v  Those  were  youthful  works,"  the  lawyer  said. 


"These  new  pictures  are  far  beyond  any  thing 
he  has  done  before." 

"You  must  go  and  see  them,  Queenie,"  add- 
ed Vaughan,  in  his  kindest  voice.  "  Indeed,  we 
ought  to  buy  one  or  two,  if  there  are  any  for 
sale." 

"  Several  I  know  are  already  sold  in  England," 
Mr. Carstoe  observed,  "and  others  since  the  ex- 
hibition opened  here." 

"Then  we  must  make  haste,"  said  Vaughan. 
If  Launce  was  achieving  reputation — though  tlie 
bare  thought  made  Darrell  grind  his  teeth — it 
suited  him  to  appear  the  munificent  patron  as 
well  as  friend  of  his  cousin.  "  Don't  forget, 
please,  Queenie  dear !  I  shall  try  and  look  in 
myself,  but  I  am  awful  busy  just  now." 

"You  wish  me  to  select  and  purchase  one?" 
she  asked. 

"By  all  means." 

"There's  one  I  fancy  greatly,"  Mr.  Carstoe 
said.  "It  is  an  Italian  scene  —  a  balcony  and 
garden  back,  and  a  beautiful  woman  and  child  in 
the  foreground." 

"Italian?"  repeated  Vaughan.  "Ah,  that 
will  be  the  picture  to  choose,  Queenie — we  like 
any  thing  that  reminds  us  of  our  magic  land." 

She  caught  the  sneer  again.  Italian!  The 
word  carried  her  back  to  those  days  under  the 
soft  Tuscan  sky  when  her  dreams  looked  so  near 
fulfillment — when  the  idol  which  her  enthusiastic 
nature  craved  for  worship  seemed  to  have  de- 
scended at  her  side,  as  unexpectedly  and  in  a 
shape  almost  as  glorious  as  the  gods  were  be- 
lieved sometimes  to  appear  in  the  old  days  of 
mythological  credences. 

Here  he  sat  now  opposite  her ;  handsome  per- 
haps as  ever,  though  the  face  looked  worn — from 
toil  and  mental  effort  the  world  would  have  said  ; 
from  dissipation  and  evil  courses  she  knew,  and 
could  not  soften  the  terms,  try  as  she  might. 

Here  he  sat  mocking  her  in  his  cruelty  by  ref- 
erence to  that  season  whose  every  memory  he 
had  trampled  upon  and  sullied  ;  captious  and  ir- 
ritable from  a  sleepless  night,  in  a  mood  to  enjoy 
hurting  her  in  all  possible  ways. 

"Besides  buying  one  of  these,"  pursued  Vaugh- 
an, "we'll  have  one  painted  specially  for  us 
when  Launce  gets  back.  Say  your  portrait, 
Queenie — in  that  old  palace  salon,  with  the  Pisan 
mountains  showing  through  the  window — you  in 
mediaeval  costume,  and  I'll  be  coming  toward 
you  as  a  Crusader  just  returned — some  business 
of  that  sort.  Nice  idea,  eh  ?" 

"If  you  fancy  it,"  she  replied,  without  show- 
ing any  trace  of  annoyance.  "  You  must  choose 
some  other  lady  for  the  mediaeval  princess-thongh 
— I  don't  mean  ever  to  sit  for  my  portrait  again."' 

Just  then  she  was  called  out  of  the  room  by  the 
arrival  of  visitors,  and  made  her  escape  gladly. 

Vaughan  and  his  guest  went  back  to  the  dis- 
cusMon  of  the  business  matter  which  had  brought 
the  latter  to  the  house.  But  Darrell  did  not  for- 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


99 


get  that  it  would  be  well  to  prevent  any  danger 
of  rash  disclosures  on  Mr.  Carstoe's  part.  So 
before  he  renewed  the  business  talk  he  must 
needs  praise  his  lovely  wife,  and  at  the  same 
time  mention  sundry  oddities  in  her  character. 

He  made  Mr.  Carstoe  understand  that  Launce 
Cromlin's  name  was  tacitly  tabooed  in  the  house, 
and  that  from  certain  feminine  repulsions  in 
which  Mrs.  Vaughan  indulged.  She  was  a  very 
proud  woman — a  very  peculiar  woman  ;  and  the 
stipulation  in  that  will  of  his  uncle's  had  been  a 
wound  to  her  pride. 

In  his  wooing  and  success  Darrell  had  received 
no  assistance  from  the  dead  man's  request  and 
the  letter  left  for  Elizabeth  Crauford — just  the 
reverse,  in  fact ;  and  it  was  only  love  that  had 
enabled  him  to  triumph  over  the  distaste  or  ob- 
stinacy which  the  details  of  that  codicil  had 
roused  in  her  mind. 

"As  for  Launce,"  pursued  Vaughan,  "he 
would  never  have  stood  a  chance.  Mr.  Crau- 
ford had  a  hopeless  prejudice  against  him — 
would  not  have  allowed  him  in  his  house.  He 
had  known  of  the  forgery  affair ;  I  tried  to  set  it 
right  —  to  show  him  how  convinced  my  uncle 
was  of  his  innocence  :  no  use  though." 

"But  surely  Mis.  Vaughan  would  not  be  so 
— so  unyielding  ?"  Mr.  Carstoe  said. 

"Ah,  she  never  knew  what  made  the  trouble 
between  Launce  and  my  uncle.  She  only 
thought  he  had  been  wild  and  reckless,  as  he 
was ;  but  of  course  I  never  told  her  of  that — 
indeed,  we  just  don't  talk  about  him.  I  like 
Launce — I  always  shall ;  but  I  have  no  hope  of 
ever  changing  her  prejudices — all  the  Craufords 
are  the  same;  otherwise  my  wife  is  perfect.  I 
suppose  there  must  be  some  flaw  in  every  thing 
human. " 

"  I  am  sure  when  Mrs.  Vaughan  meets  Grem- 
lin she  can  not  help  liking  him,"  Mr.  Carstoe 
said. 

Darrell  shrugged  his  shoulders  hopelessly. 

"I'd  be  glad  to  believe  it,"  he  answered,  "but 
I  can't.  At  all  events,  it  is  better  not  to  talk 
about  him — above  all  of  that  wretched  codicil ; 
it  is  the  one  thing  she  can  not  speak  or  think  of 
with  any  calmness." 

"  Of  course  I  never  should  mention  it,"  replied 
Carstoe;  "it  would  be  an  impertinence  on  my 
part." 

"Oh  no;  we  both  look  on  yon  as  a  friend; 
but  it  would  tease  and  annoy  her." 

"  And  that  I  certainly  would  not  do  for  the 
world,"  returned  the  lawyer,  his  face  beaming 
with  satisfaction  to  hear  himself  called  the  friend 
of  these- two  objects  of  his  highest  esteem. 

So  then  Darrell  could  return  composedly  to 
the  business  affairs. 

A  few  days  after  this  conversation,  Elizabeth 
went  to  see  the  pictures — went  again  and  again, 
for  they  delighted  her.  She  did  become  the  pos- 
sessor of  one,  though  it  was  paid  for  out  of  her 


j  own  means,  and  she  refrained  from  speaking  of 
Launce  to  her  husband ;  she  had  long  since  per- 
ceived that  Darrell  was  always  irritated  at  the 
mention  of  the  man. 

Mr.  Carstoe  found  her  in  the  gallery  one  morn- 
ing when  he  had  taken  advantage  of  a  few  hours' 
idleness  to  have  another  peep  at  the  productions 
of  his  favorite.  Remembering  Vaughan's  cau- 
tion, he  was  careful  to  keep  the  .conversation 
upon  the  grounds  it  would  have  assumed  had  the 
artist  been  an  unknown  or  indifferent  person  to 
both.  So  he  was  somewhat  surprised  when 
I  Elizabeth  said  suddenly —  ^ 

"I  forget  if  you  told  me  that  you  knew  Mr. 
i  Cromlin  ?" 

"Yes;  I  know  him  well." 

"  Indeed  ?  I  had  an  impression  that  he  usu- 
ally lived  abroad.  You  have  not  been  in  Eu- 
rope ?" 

"Never.  I  met  Mr.  Cromlin  in  California,  the 
autumn  after  his  uncle's  death,"  Carstoe  replied. 

Every  thing  connected  with  old  Mr.  Vaughan 
was  interesting  to  Elizabeth  ;  she  wondered  now 
that  she  had  asked  so  little  about  him  of  this 
man,  who  had  been  his  trusted  friend. 

"After?  Then  he  was  not  with  Mr.Vangh- 
an  either  at  the  time  of  his  death  ?  My  husband 
likewise  arrived  too  late — at  least  his  uncle  never 
knew  him  :  it  was  very  sad !" 

"Very  sad!"  echoed  her  companion. 

"  But  I  remember  now,"  continued  Elizabeth  ; 
"Mr.  Cromlin  and  his  uncle  were  not  friends. 
It  is  a  pity  Mr.  Vaughan  could  not  have  lived  to 
see  how  he  has  grown  out  of  his  youthful  errors 
—  for  he  must  have  done  this :  those  paintings 
i  tell  not  only  of  genius  but  patient  study — study 
that  has  been  the  habit  of  years." 

"Cromlin  is  one  of  the  most  industrious  men 
I  ever  knew,"  returned  Mr.  Carstoe,  warmly. 
Since  she  chose  to  talk  of  Launce,  Carstoe's  fidel- 
ity to  his  friendship  obliged  him  to  give  the  young 
man  the  full  credit  that  was  his  due.  "Most 
artists,  they  say,  are  spasmodic  and  irregular 
about  work.  Cromlin  is  as  methodical  and  pa- 
tient as  if  he  were  as  dull  a  plodder  as — as  I  am, 
say,  instead  of  a  genius." 

"  Did  he  go  to  California  to  study  new  scen- 
ery ?"  she  asked. 

"Xo;  he  did  remain  with  that  view,  but  it 
was  not  the  reason  which  brought  him  there." 

"  \Vhat,  then  ?" 

"You  have  forgotten,  I  suppose,"  he  answered, 
feeling  a  little  uncomfortable.  "He  hoped  to 
find  his  uncle  still  alive ;  the  letter  Mr.  Vaughan 
wrote  begging  to  see  him  did  not  reach  its  des- 
tination for  many  weeks.  Launce  sailed  for 
America,  hurried  on  to  California,  but  his  uncle 
had  long  been  dead  and  buried." 

"He  sent  for  Mr.  Cromlin?  Then  he  had 
ceased  to  be  angry  with  him?" 

Mr.  Carstoe  bowed.  Elizabeth  wished  to  know 
i  more  of  this  young  man.  His  pictures  inspired 


100 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


her  with  such  admiration  that  she  wanted  to 
believe,  if  possible,  that  he  had  overcome  those 
vices  which,  always  in  a  vague  fashion,  she  had 
heard  laid  to  his  charge. 

"I  do  not  know  the  cause  of  the  difficulty  be- 
tween the  uncle  and  nephew,"  she  said.  "My 
father  seemed  to  think  the  subject  a  painful  one 
to  my  husband,  so  I  have  never  asked.  Have 
you  any  objection  to  telling  me  ?" 

So  after  all  the  husband  and  wife  misunder- 
stood each  other's  avoidance  of  Cromlin's  name. 
It  was  all  owing  to  Mr.  Crauford's  prejudices  and 
errors.  No  task  could  be  more  grateful  to  the 
old  lawyer  than  that  of  righting  Cromlin  in  the 
esteem  of  any  person  who  misjudged  him.  It 
was  doubly  a  pleasure  to  attempt  the  work  with 
this  woman,  whose  good  opinion  he  deemed  an 
honor  almost  matchless. 

It  was  better  that  she  should  know  the  whole. 
That  very  suspicion  in  regard  to  the"  forgery  un- 
der which  he  had  at  one  time  lain  had  better  be 
told.  Dan-ell  had  kept  the  truth  from  her  be- 
cause he  did  not  comprehend  her  feelings,  but 
Carstoe  was  sure  that  she  desired  to  think  well 
of  her  husband's  cousin.  This  story  and  the  final 
discovery  of  his  innocence  by  the  uncle  now  dead 
would  help  more  than  any  thing  to  enlist  her 
womanly  sympathies  in  Cromlin's  favor. 

He  told  the  history  in  his  slow,  clear  manner 
— Edgar  Vaughan's  grief  at  having  believed  the 
boy  he  loved  capable  of  crime— then  Launce's 
arrival,  his  sorrow  for  his  relative,  his  delight  in 
feeling  the  old  man  had  discovered  his  innocence 
— the  impenetrable  mystery  which  enveloped  the 
affair — Launce's  illness — all  the  details  of  his 
Californian  life. 

Elizabeth  listened,  while  a  strange  wonder 
awakened  in  her  mind. 

Mr.  Carstoe  made,  too,  certain  allusions  to  the 
codicil  in  Mr.  Vaughan's  will ;  they  came  back 
to  her  afterward. 

NoW  she  was  thinking  most  of  another  aspect 
of  the  affair.  Why  had  Darrell  never  told  her 
these  things,  instead  of  vaguely  expressing  opin- 
ions of  his  cousin  which  were  calculated  to  im- 
press any  listener  with  a  sense  of  the  man's  un- 
worthiness  ? 

Darrell  hated  Launce  Cromlin  ;  she  could  not 
help  wondering  why.  And,  too,  the  dead  man 
had  meant  to  make  a  new  will — a  more  even  di- 
vision of  his  fortune.  Vaughnn  knew  this ;  but 
here  she  dreaded  to  doubt  him ;  she  would  ask 
no  questions ;  it  might  be  an  offer  had  been 
made  to  Cromlin  and  refused. 

Still  the  fact  remained  that  during  all  these 
years  he  had  allowed  her  to  think  ill  of  his  rela- 
tive; had  taken  no  pains  to  set  her  right — far 
from  it  indeed.  Elizabeth  hated  injustice ;  this 
was  a  new  shock  and  pain.  Well  as  she  knew 
Darrell,  now  it  was  misery  to  have  this  fresh 
•if  his  utter  hollowness,  the  entire  sham  of 
i.i.s  pretense  of  generosity  and  justice. 


"I  fear  you  are  not  well;  you  look  pale,'' 
Mr.  Carstoe  said.  "I  have  tired  you  with  my 
OJig  story." 

"Not  in  the  least,"  she  replied,  calling  back 
iier  thoughts  with  an  effort.  "1  knew  very  lit- 
tle of  Mr.  Cromlin ;  I  have  always  misjudged 
!iim.  At  least  I  am  a  just  woman ;  I  am  glad 
to  change  my  opinion." 

"Then  I  may  tell  you  honestly  that  I  am  de- 
lighted this  conversation  has  come  about,"  Mr. 
Carstoe  said,  making  a  ball  of  his  unfortunate 
gloves,  which  he  rolled  between  his  long  hands, 
while  the  ugly  old  face  lighted  pleasantly.  "I 
do  so  thoroughly  honor  your  husband  that  I  can 
not  bear  to  have  any  estrangement  between 
them !  I  should  not  of  course  have  ventured  to 
speak  unless  you  had  brought  the  subject  up.  I 
— I — am  sure  Mr.  Vaughan  would  like  to  see  his 
cousin,  to  invite  him  to  the  house.  Ah,  I  am 
very  glad  there  can  be  no  objection,  that  you 
feel  differently,  that — " 

He  had  been  stammering  dreadfully  all 
through  the  sentence ;  now  he  broke  down  in 
hopeless  embarrassment,  afraid  that  he  had  pre- 
sumed too  far  in  his  earnestness. 

Vaughan  had  given  him  to  understand  that 
he  feared  she,  Elizabeth,  would  desire  to  keep 
him  aloof  from  his  cousin ;  this  was  evident ; 
but  what  could  it  mean — what  could  have  been 
the  motive?  Oh,  it  was  useless  to  search  for  the 
reason  ;  perhaps  only  a  wish  to  make  her  appear 
in  a  harsh,  unpleasant  light.  It  seemed  petty  to 
suspect  him  of  such  intentions,  but  he  had  so 
often  done  similar  things  to  prejudice  people 
whom  she  esteemed  that  she  could  not  help  sup- 
posing he  had  been  actuated  by  a  like  feeling  in 
this  matter. 

Her  face  changed,  and  her  eyes  grew  at  once 
stern  and  troubled.  She  was  glad  to  leave  the 
subject,  once  more  assuring  Mr.  Carstoe  that  she 
had  no  dislike  toward  his  friend  such  as  he  had 
imputed  to  her;  that  even  her  vague  prejudice 
had  vanished  under  this  explanation. 

Then  she  bade  the  old  man  farewell  and  went 
away,  trying  to  put  from  her  mind  this  fresh  evi- 
dence of  her  husband's  untiring  efforts  to  present 
her  in  a  wrong  light  to  those  about  them. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A    COUSINLY    OFFER. 

ONLY  a  few  weeks  later,  Launce  Cromlin  re- 
turned to  America.  He  had  begun  to  reap  the 
reward  of  his  years  of  patient  labor,  though  the 
ideal  for  which  he  toiled  was  so  far  from  reached 
that  the  praise  bestowed  upon  his  work  affected 
him  little.  It  was  pleasant,  because  his  broad, 
generous  nature  yearned  to  give  and  receive  sym- 
pathy, to  be  in  the  fullest  accord  with  his  kind. 
It  was  like  scenting  the  fragrance  of  sweet  flow- 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


101 


ers,  this  appreciation  which  floated  his  way  — 
nothing  more.  Only  the  second  night  after  his 
'arrival,  some  lion-loving  dame,  who  had  known 
him  in  Europe,  begged  his  presence  at  one  of 
those  reunions  in  whose  pleasantness  she  found 
the  triumphs  which  gratified  such  necessity  of 
success  as  her  nature  required — not  a  lofty  form 
of  the  longing  perhaps,  but  since  she  was  capable 
of  nothing  beyond,  one  could  only  demand  that 
she  should  do  her  part  well,  and  that  she  did.  It 
was  late  when  Launce  appeared.  Of  course,  he 
had  first  to  run  a  gauntlet  rather  annoying  to 
any  man  not  spoiled  by  vanity,  but  he  let  his  host- 
ess have  her  way,  and,  fortunately,  the  persecu- 
tion was  soon  ended  by  the  arrival  of  forest  kings 
of  larger  growth — a  foreign  diplomatist,  a  noted 
warrior,  and  the  like — and  Launce  was  left  free 
to  follow  his  own  devices. 

Presently  he  heard  music ;  a  violin  and  harp 
were  discoursing  eloquently  in  a  salon  beyond, 
and  he  passed  on  through  the  brilliant  rooms  till 
he  reached  that  where  the  heavenly  voices  made 
a  welcome  silence.  How  many  among  those 
present  kept  quiet  from  a  sense  of  decency,  how 
few  from  a  comprehension  of  the  language  ut- 
tered, Lannce  was  not  misanthropist  enough  to 
ask  himself;  had  he  been,  the  golden  harmony 
appealed  too  subtly  to  his  own  faculties  for  him 
to  have  found  leisure  for  the  question. 

The  imprisoned  souls  in  the  instruments  ceased 
their  melodious  cry,  and  the  murmurs  of  the  list- 
eners rose,  rather  making  one  feel  as  if  a  crowd 
of  gnats  were  buzzing  their  commendation  of 
nightingales,  believing,  too,  that  the  nightingales 
had  sung  for  their  benefit.  Launce  found  that 
while  listening  to  the  music  he  had  been  watch- 
ing a  lady  seated  at  some  distance ;  and,  though 
he  had  not  known  it  while  absorbed  by  the  duet, 
he  perceived  now  that  all  the  time  he  had  watched 
because  she  struck  his  fancy  as  looking  like  the 
personification  of  the  harmony  which  had  thrilled 
his  being. 

A  woman,  young  and  beautiful  —  a  M-oman 
whose  very  attire  showed  that  artistic  keeping 
and  perfection  were  a  necessity  to  her  in  the 
merest  trifles.  A  dress  of  one  of  those  marvel- 
ous new  tints  for  which  the  eye  is  as  grateful  as 
the  ear  for  a  new  strain  of  music.  Bands  of  dark 
Roman  gold,  in  which  were  set  antique  cameos, 
encircled  the  white  neck  and  arms,  and  height- 
ened the  glory  of  her  hair — hair  that  was  bronze 
in  the  shadows,  and  took  tints  like  those  of  a  jel- 
low  topaz  in  the  light. 

Another  moment  and  he  was  far  enough  down 
from  the  height  whither  he  had  followed  the 
spirit  voices  to  see  more  than  the  perfection  of 
the  dress — the  grace  of  the  attitude,  the  beauty 
of  the  face,  into  whose  fail-ness  the  music  had 
brought  her  very  soul;  he  saw  that  the  features 
were  familiar.  A  second's  perplexed  wonder, 
and  he  knew  that  he  was  standing  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  woman  whose  infcge  had  for  a  brief 


season  cast  so  lovely  a  light  of  dreams  across  his 
later  youth. 

At  the  same  instant  a  hand  touched  his  shoul- 
der— a  pleasant  voice  said  in  his  ear — 

"Launce,  old  boy!  How  glad  I  am  to  wel- 
come you  home  at  last !" 

As  he  turned  and  faced  the  speaker,  Cromlin 
remembered  still  another  fact  in  connection  with 
this  lady — she  was  his  cousin's  wife.  While 
Vaughan  hurried  on  with  gay,  friendly  greetings, 
a  quick  repulsion  shook  Launce — a  half-deter- 
mination to  check  this  affectionate  enthusiasm 
by  chilling  words.  Once  more  his  gaze  wan- 
dered toward  Elizabeth.  She  was  speaking  now 
with  some  one,  but  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  Dar- 
rell  and  himself.  It  seemed  to  Launce — it  was 
an  insane  fancy,  and  he  knew  it — but  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  saw  a  strange  pleading  in  the 
glorious  face,  as  if  she  comprehended  the  sudden 
impulse  and  entreated  forbearance.  The  whole 
was  only  a  whirling  fancy  of  a  second,  then 
Lannce  allowed  his  hand  to  be  shaken,  and  the 
salutations  proper  between  such  near  relatives 
were  given  and  returned. 

"I  only  saw  your  arrival  in  this  morning's 
paper,"  Vaughan  continued.  "I  went  at  once 
to  your  hotel,  but  you  were  out;  then  I  met 
Mrs.  Sumner,  and  she  said  you  were  to  be  here 
to-night.  How  nice  it  is  to  see  you  back,  and 
what  an  amount  of  work  you  have  been  doing 
lately!" 

Just  the  slightest  possible  inflection  on  the 
final  word,  as  if  to  express  the  contrast  such  in- 
dustry offered  to  Launce's  past ;  but  Launce  was 
rather  amused  than  irritated  thereby. 

"One  does  not  like  to  prove  exactly  a  drone 
in  this  busy  old  hive  of  a  world,"  he  answered, 
smiling. 

"No,  no,"  returned  Darrell,  "I  always  knew 
you  would  feel  that  sooner  or  later.  I  had  faith 
in  you." 

The  words  must  have  been  audible  to  several 
persons  standing  near — people  who  were  their 
mutual  acquaintances.  Launce  understood  per- 
fectly the  light  in  which  Vaughan  meant  to 
make  him  appear,  but  he  could  afford  to  smile. 
Besides,  no  ill-timed  evidence  of  annoyance  un- 
der this  affectionate  patronage  could  have  helped 
his  case.  Indisputable  facts  and  the  future  must 
prove  the  falsity  of  the  impression  which  Darrell 
desired  to  produce,  and  Launce  had  schooled 
himself  in  that  most  dignified  of  virtues — pa- 
tience. 

Vaughan's  hand  still  lingered  on  his  arm  ;  he 
was  led  forward ;  they  were  standing  before  Eliz- 
abeth, and  her  husband  said — 

"Greet  your  new  relative — wild  man,  not  of 
the  woods,  but  of  the  studio !  Queenie,  here  is 
this  wretched  boy,  Launce  Cromlin,  at  last! 
Scold  him  well  for  not  coming  to  our  house  when 
he  landed. " 

The  words  were  so  gayly  spoken,  that  one 


102 


MR.  VAUGIIAN'S  HEIR. 


needed  the  most  delicate  intuitions  to  seize  the 
covert  insolence  and  condescension  lurking  be- 
neath the  cousinly  familiarity.  Both  Launce 
and  Elizabeth  comprehended — it  was  like  a  jar 
in  pleasant  music— though  neither  face  betrayed 
any  consciousness. 

Mrs.  Vaughan  looked  at  the  new-comer  with 
a  gravity  which  the  faint  smile  about  the  serious 
mouth  sweetened,  but  did  not  brighten. 

Still  Launce  thought  the  little  she  said  the 
most  delightful  welcome  he  had  ever  received. 

It  was  the  voice  which  made  the  spell— so  un- 
like ordinary  voices,  that  sound  as  if  the  world's 
dust  had  spoiled  their  ring.  This  voice  of  Eliza- 
beth's seemed  never  to  have  been  used  to  utter 
petty  deceits  or  miserable  trivialities.  It  was  as 
different  from  tones  familiar  with  such  verbiage 
as  a  cathedral  organ  kept  sacred  to  the  expres- 
sion of  music's  holiest  utterance  is  different  from 
a  shrill  piano  in  a  hotel,  degraded  by  the  touch 
of  every  common  passer-by. 

The  words  were  simple  enough — Elizabeth 
was  never  pretentious  or  affected.  She  had  even 
outgrown  the  fault  almost  universal  among  full- 
idead  natures — that  of  talking  over  the  heads  of 
chance  auditors.  Best  of  all,  she  could  listen. 
Had  nine  persons  out  of  ten  been  capable  of  an- 
alyzing their  impressions  (that  rarest  gift),  they 
would  have  discovered  that  the  chief  charm  of 
her  society  lay  in  this— she  cculd  listen. 

Vaughan  stood  by  the  two  for  a  while,  talking 
pleasantly ;  then  he  strolled  away  into  the  outer 
rooms.  The  harp  and  violin  began  another  an- 
gelic dialogue.  When  the  silvery  speech  ended, 
the  newly  introduced  relatives — it  seemed  odd  to 
both  to  remember  that  they  were  such — con- 
versed for  a  while  longer.  But  other  people  came 
tip  presently  to  claim  Mrs. Vaughan 's  attention, 
and  Launce  recollected  that  any  further  lingering 
in  her  neighborhood  would  be  contrary  to  the 
small  laws  of  etiquette. 

An  hour  after  he  met  the  husband  and  wife  as 
they  were  leaving  the  drawing-rooms. 

"  We  must  ask  Launce  to  come  and  see  us," 
Vaughan  said,  as  he  caught  sight  of  his  cousin. 
"  Nothing  so  absurd  as  coolness  between  rela- 
tives. Besides,  I  wish  to  show  him  that  I  ap- 
prove of  the  change  there  is  in  his  life ;  it  prob- 
ably won't  last  long,  but  it  is  right  to  encourage 
him." 

Elizabeth  made  no  answer ;  she  was  not  irri- 
tated on  Mr.  Cromlin's  account — only  ashamed 
for  the  man  who  spoke,  who  had  forced  upon 
her  a  knowledge  of  the  hollowness  of  such  vir- 
tuous pretense  on  his  part.  But  Vaughan  was 
thinking  of  his  intended  patronage — of  getting 
all  the  glory  possible  for  himself  out  of  his  rela- 
tionship with  Launce,  under  cover  of  that  same 
condescension,  and  did  not  notice  her  silence. 

"  Let  me  see,"  he  continued.  "  Suppose  you 
invite  him  for  the  day  after  to-morrow — we  have 
some  people  coming  to  dinner,  you  know." 


Of  course  Elizabeth  gave  the  invitation,  and 
Launce  accepted  it  without  really  thinking  of 
what  such  acceptance  implied.  But  he  did  think 
of  it  on  his  way  home,  and  had  110  mind  to  be 
drawn  into  an  apparent  intimacy  with  his  cousin, 
or  to  become  his  debtor  even  for  ordinary  social 
kindnesses. 

Before  he  went  to  bed  he  wrote  a  note  to  Dar- 
rell,  and  told  him,  not  this,  but  his  cold  regrets 
that  circumstances  (which  he  did  not  attempt  to 
explain)  compelled  him  to  retract  his  promise 
left  that  intention  perfectly  evident. 

He  sent  the  billet  to  Vaughan  the  next  morn- 
ing, and  just  after  he  had  done  so,  Mr.  Carstoe 
came  to  pa)'  him  a  visit,  and  to  reiterate  his  sat- 
isfaction at  Launce's  success,  in  a  blundering 
fashion  as  comical  as  it  was  sincere.  Then  the 
good  man  rushed  into  praise  of  Vaughan,  having 
it  always  in  his  mind  that  slight  prejudices  ex- 
isted between  the  two  cousins,  and  anxious  to 
make  each  respect  and  admire  the  other  as  thor- 
oughly as  both  in  his  convictions  deserved. 

Launce  would  not  pain  him  by  any  expression 
of  doubt  in  regard  to  Darrell's  worth  or  good 
feelings  toward  himself,  and  Carstoe  receded  his 
silence  as  a  sign  of  assent  to  his  own  exalted 
opinions. 

In  the  midst  of  their  conversation  some  one 
knocked  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  said  Cromlin,  supposing  it  to  be  a 
servant ;  and  Vaughan  entered. 

"I  was  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  recollect  cere- 
mony," he  said  in  his  pleasantest  voice.  "  Good- 
morning,  Launce.  Ah,  Carstoe,  how  do  you  do  ? 
I  am  glad  to  find  you  here." 

"Good-morning,  good-morning!"  cried  Mr. 
Carstoe,  fluttering  and  rubbing  his  hands  with 
delight  at  this  visit,  which  seemed  a  proof  of  his 
assertions  in  regard  to  DarreH's  friendship  for 
his  cousin. 

Launce  spoke  some  pleasant  words  of  greet- 
ing, as  he  might  have  done  to  any  ordinary  ac- 
quaintance, but  Vaughan  hardly  waited  for  him 
to  finish. 

"Now,  see  here,  Launce  Cromlin,"  return- 
ed he,  "that's  all  humbug,  and  you  know  it. 
You're  not  a  bit  glad  to  see  me,  and  I  don't 
want  politeness — I  want  the  truth !  I  came 
here  on  purpose  to  have  an  explanation — and 
I'm  glad  to  find  Carstoe — he'll  do  me  justice,  if 
you  won't. " 

"Sit  down,  Darrell,"  said  Launce,  cordially 
enough,  but  not  paying  the  slightest  attention  to 
his  cousin's  half-injured,  half-affectionate  out- 
burst. 

"Well,"  laughed  Vaughan,  "if  I  were  a  dig- 
nified fellow,  I'd  not  do  it — I'd  not  come  near 
you ;  but  I  can't  behave  in  that  way.  Now, 
Launce  " — his  voice  grew  serious,  even  pleading 
— "tell  me  outright,  are  you  angry  with  me?" 

'*  Not  in  the  least,"  replied  Launce. 

"Come,"  said  V;iughan,  "that's  something, 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


103 


fur  you  always  were  a  frank  fellow,  at  least,  and 
meant  what  you  said." 

"That  applies  to  both — to  both,"  murmured 
Mr.  Carstoe,  rubbing  his  hands  harder  than  ever 
in  delight  at  this  prospect  of  a  thorough  under- 
standing between  his  friends. 

"Thanks,  Carstoe, "returned  Vaughan. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  I  didn't  mean  to  inter- 
rupt you,"  said  the  agent,  confused  at  finding  he 
had  uttered  his  thought  aloud. 

"I  depend  on  you  to  help  me  set  myself 
right  with  this  wrong-headed  man,"  continued 
Vaughan. 

Cromlin  perfectly  comprehended  Darrell's 
drift,  and  the  light  in  which  his  cousin  meant 
to  make  him  appear  —  impulsive,  boyish,  hot- 
brained,  perhaps  envious  and  jealous ;  but  he 
felt  no  inclination  to  anger — rather  amused,  in 
fact,  at  Darrell's  craft. 

"Mr.  Carstoe  has  been  sounding  your  praises 
for  the  last  half-hour,"  said  he,  smiling;  "but 
let  me  tell  you,  once  for  all,  Vaughan,  you  don't 
need  any  setting  right  with  me. " 

"  How  he  says  the  words !"  cried  Darrell,  pet- 
ulantly. "Now  don't  put  a  fellow  a  thousand 
miles  offwith  your  stateliness !  See  here,  Launce, 
I  am  going  into  the  middle  of  matters  at  once. 
I  wish  that  confounded  will  had  been  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  sea — " 

"There  need  be  no  question  about  the  will," 
interrupted  Cromlin. 

"Yes,  there  need  and  there  shall,"  returned 
Vaughan.  "Launce,  you  ought  to  have  had 
more  than  ten  thousand  dollars.  I  wouldn't 
have  said  so  once,  because  I  should  have  thought 
you  would  only  waste  it.  But  if  my  uncle  could 
have  known  how  you  would  work,  how  steady 
you  would  become,  he'd  have  left  you  more." 

"Ah,"  said  Launce,  composedly,  "so  you 
thought  me  a  spendthrift — dissipated.  On  what 
did  you  base  your  belief?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  tell,"  replied  Vaughan, 
with  delightful  frankness.  "  I  had  an  idea  you 
were  very  wild — as  a  young  fellow ;  just  what 
my  uncle  thought." 

"I  never  had  any  reason  to  think  my  uncle 
believed  ill  of  me  until  the  time  when  he  cast 
me  off  without  explanation,"  Launce  said,  still 
retaining  his  calmness. 

"And  I  never  knew  why  either  till  just  before 
his  death,"  Darrell  said.  "I  told  you  that  in 
Europe.  He  told  me  only  that  he  had  been  dis- 
appointed ;  that  he  had  found  you  to  be  utterly 
worthless  and  vile." 

"  But,  thank  God !  all  that  was  cleared  up  in 
his  mind,"  Mr.  Carstoe  broke  in. 

"Yes,  thank  God!"  echoed  Vaughan. 

Launce  did  not  speak. 

"Fortunately,"  continued  Vaughan,  "  nobody 
knew  of  that  sad  business  except  Mr.  Sandford : 
lie  died  just  after  our  uncle  learned  the  truth." 

"It  strikes  me  the  truth  is  not  known,"  ob- 


served Cromlin.  "My  uncle  was  satisfied,  yet 
it  was  only  circumstantial  evidence  on  which  he 
based  his  conviction  of  my  innocence." 

"  It's  enough  to  drive  one  wild !"  cried  Vaugh- 
an. "But  it  is  only  the  mystery  that  is  a  worry 
now.  It's  of  no  use  to  think ;  the  matter  can 
do  you  no  hurt — will  never  be  heard  of;  you 
ought  to  put  it  out  of  your  mind,  Launce." 

"  I  think  I  have  done  so,"  he  replied.  "  Pray 
don't  fancy  that  I  am  making  a  melodrama  of 
myself — weaving  a  plot — meaning  to  devote  my 
life  to  finding  out  who  was  my  enemy,  and  what 
induced  him  to  work  such  villainy." 

"  No,  no  ;  I  am  sure  not,"  said  Vaughan. 
' '  Better  to  let  it  go !  Carstoe  and  I  worried 
and  thought,  but  it  was  of  no  use.  Perhaps  it 
was  not  even  an  enemy — just  some  fellow  who 
found  himself  in  a  corner,  and  helped  himself 
out  of  a  scrape  by  using  your  name." 

"I  don't  care  to  talk  about  it,"  returned 
Launce.  "It  is  done  and  gone.  Time  may 
clear  the  mystery — Time  does  odd  things,  you 
know. " 

"Ah!"  said  Darrell, but  did  not  follow  up  the 
vague  ejaculation,  which  might  mean  any  thing 
or  nothing. 

"Let  it  go,"  said  Mr.  Carstoe.  "At  least 
that  can  not  stand  between  you  two." 

"Nothing  must  stand  between  us,"  said  Vaugh- 
an. "I  suppose  Launce  thinks  I  did  wrong  in 
never  writing  to  him  after  we  met  in  Europe. 
But  my  uncle  was  so  violent,  so  set  against  him 
— excuse  me,  Launce,  I  must  say  it — that  he 
prejudiced  me  too.  I  admit  that." 

"It  was  natural,"  sighed  Carstoe ;  "  you  know- 
it  was,  Cromlin." 

"  Once  for  all, Vaughan,"  said  Launce,"  there 
is  no  need  of  explanations  ;  I  have  no  hard  feel- 
ings toward  you." 

Vaughan  rose  impulsively  from  his  chair,  and 
put  both  hands  on  his  cousin's  shoulders. 

"Prove  it,"  he  exclaimed,  "by  taking  not 
only  what  the  will  gives  you,  but  a  proper  share 
of  the  fortune  my  uncle  left.  I  hinted  at  this 
in  my  letter  to  you ;  I  was  afraid  of  vexing  you 
by  speaking  outright,  but  I  must  now.  Carstoe, 
tell  him  it  would  be  right — tell  him  to  put  by  his 
pride  and  let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  doing  this. 
Ah,  Launce,  be  a  sensible  old  boy,  and  do  what 
I  want." 

Of  course  Cromlin  felt  terribly  irritated;  he 
was  tempted  to  push  his  cousin  away  and  answer 
roughly.  He  believed  the  whole  a  bit  of  hypo- 
critical acting;  but,  after  all,  he  had  little  be- 
yond vague  suspicions  of  Vaughan.  The  blotted 
lines  he  had  found  in  their  uncle's  note -book 
were  not  a  proof.  Nothing  could  be  gained  by 
giving  expression  to  his  doubts.  He  felt  that 
Darrell  was  not  true  —  how  far  he  had  been 
guilty  of  actual  treachery  he  could  not  fathom. 
If  was  better  to  be  silent ;  he  did  not  want  his 
life  marred  by  contention  or  hatred.  His  doubts 


104 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


did  not  make  him  angry  ;  he  tried  to  accuse 
himself  of  injustice  in  considering  his  cousin  a 
hypocrite,  but  though  unable  to  do  this,  it  was 
contempt  he  felt,  not  indignation. 

Mr.Carstoe  was  immensely  touched  by  Vaugh- 
an's  generosity.  He  knew  that  it  would  not  be 
accepted ;  but  it  was  noble  and  just,  and  Crom- 
lin  would  give  him  due  credit. 

"Now  speak,  Launce— say  you  will,"  added 
Vaughan. 

Cromlin  looked  up  in  his  face ;  he  was  sure 
he  caught  a  sudden  gleam  of  anxiety  in  Dar- 
rell's  eyes.  He  could  have  smiled  to  think  of 
the  confusion  he  should  cause  if  he  were  to  ac- 
cept the  lofty-sounding  proposal. 

"  Don't  let  petty  scruples  stand  between  tis," 
said  Vaughan.  ' '  What  do  you  care  if  the  world 
does  say  I  gave  the  money  ?  Are  we  not  cousins  ? 
— and  who  need  know  ?" 

It  was  a  little  argument  that  might  appeal  to 
Cromlin's  pride  in  case  the  warmly  urged  plea 
should  have  made  him  falter  in  his  determination. 
"We  will  have  done  with  this  matter  too," 
Launce  said.  "This  question  of  money  must 
not  come  up  between  us  again.  I  have  all  I 
want  without  asking  yours." 

Mr.  Carstoe  heard  only  the  quiet  resolution  in 
the  voice.  Vaughan  perceived  the  undertone  of 
mockery,  which  made  him  doubt  whether  his 
cousin  were  fully  impressed  by  his  generosity. 

"At  least  you  will  take  the  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars," he  said. 

' '  I  shall  not  take  a  penny ! "  exclaimed  Launce, 
sternly.  Then  he  caught  firm  hold  of  his  wan- 
ing patience,  and  continued — ' '  Now  we  are  done 
with  all  that;  let  us  talk  of  pleasanter  matters." 
"  There  is  just  one  other  thing — it  is  difficult 
to  speak  about,"  Vaughan  began,  with  a  neatly 
assumed  hesitation. 

"The  codicil?"  said  Launce.  "Not  difficult 
at  all ;  but  there  is  no  necessity." 

"  After  all,  that  was  a  matter  Fate  settled  in- 
dependent of  every  thing  and  every  body,"  re- 
turned Darrell,  with  a  triumphant  laugh.  Then 
he  added,  more  gravely,  "  I  need  hardly  tell  you 
that  my  wife  knows  nothing  of  that  sad  story — 
about  the  check :  you  understand.  I  fancy  her 
father — a  dreadfully  prejudiced  old  party — gave 
her  an  idea  you  were  a  very  naughty  fellow ;  but 
with  your  new  line  of  conduct  you'll  soon  live 
down  every  body's  prejudices." 

His  new  line  of  conduct !  Whether  he  com- 
mended or  was  affectionate,  Vaughan  managed 
to  be  annoying.  Launce  only  bowed  and  held 
fast  to  his  temper.  Mr.  Carstoe  was  too  busy 
now  to  notice  what  either  said  or  did.  He  felt 
dreadfully  guilty  toward  Vaughan,  though  he 
could  not  repent  having  told  the  wife  the  whole 
story,  since  it  had  been  the  means  effectually  of 
clearing  Cromlin  in  her  eyes. 

"Come,"  said  Vaughan,  "I  have  not  wasted 


my  time,  after  all,  this  morning.     That  note   nothing  of  her  talk." 


does  not  count,  Launce ;  we  shall  see  you  at  din- 
ner to-morrow  ?" 

There  was  no  possibility  of  refusal  now,  unless 
he  really  meant  to  quarrel.  Launce  wished  he 
had  left  the  matter  where  it  was  in  the  beginning 
— at  least  he  might  have  been  spared  DarreH's 
grand  proposals  and  affectionate  demonstrations. 
But  he  was  not  by  any  means  done  with  the  lat- 
ter. Vaughan  remained,  talking  of  his  friend- 
ship, his  willingness  to  forget,  his  desire  to  have 
faith  in  the  future,  till  Launce  scarcely  knew 
whether  to  laugh  or  turn  him  out  of  the  room, 
and  at  last  felt  rather  confused.  He  almost 
wondered  if  he  were  unconsciously  a  Prodigal, 
whom  it  was  magnanimous  on  Darrell's  part  to 
receive  with  open  arms  and  loudly  expressed  for- 
giveness— the  sort  of  forgiveness  which  holds  a 
full  recognition  of  the  culprit's  faults,  and  re- 
dounds abundantly  to  the  credit  of  the  forgiver. 

Finally  Vaughan  got  round  to  the  subject  of 
his  cousin's  pictures,  and  talked  agreeably  and 
well.  Several  portfolios  of  sketches  lay  on  a 
table.  They  began  turning  them  over,  and  dis- 
cussing their  relative  merits  as  subjects  for  fin- 
ished pictures. 

Suddenly  Launce  felt  the  table  shake  under  a 
quick  movement  Vaughan  made.  He  held  a 
sketch  in  his  hands  and  was  staring  intently  at 
it.  Launce  glanced  over  his  shoulder,  and  saw 
that  it  was  a  scene  in  water  colors  that  he  at- 
tempted in  California  after  his  illness — Milady 
in  her  cell.  It  was  one  of  the  most  forcible  of 
Launce's  studies — the  expression  and  life-like- 
ness of  the  woman's  face  were  wonderful. 

"Not  bad,  is  it?"  said  Launce. 

Darrell  turned  toward  him  with  a  murderous 
scowl :  his  countenance  livid  —  his  eyes  black 
with  anger — yes,  with  an  absolute  dread  added, 
Launce  felt. 

"Where  did  you  get  this  ?"  he  asked,  hoarsely. 

Mr.  Carstoe  had  been  seated  by  the  hearth 
examining  a  book  of  engravings.  He  came  up 
now  and  looked  at  the  sketch. 

"Milady!"  he  said  in  a  low  tone.  "Won- 
derful!" 

Darrell  controlled  himself  by  a  violent  effort. 
Launce  perceived  it,  and  laid  the  sketch  down. 

"You  saw  the  creature,  then?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  Launce.  "I  had  an  idea — 
an  insane  one — that  she  might  be  able  to  throw 
some  light  on  that  secret." 

"Ah!"  returned  Darrell. 

"I  told  Mr.  Cromlin  she  could  not, "observed 
Mr.  Carstoe,  too  busy  with  the  drawings  to  look 
at  the  cousins,  who  were  gazing  straight  into 
each  other's  eyes,  Launce  confused  and  puzzled 


rather  than  suspicious, 
to  a  crazy  scene. " 

"Ah!"  Darrell  said  again, 
think  of  her,  Launce  ?" 

"  She  seemed  to  me  half  mad :  I  could  make 


"  She  only  treated  him 
"What  did  you 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S   HEIR. 


103 


"Her  visits  to  Mr.  Edgar  Vaughan  were  un- 
doubtedly an  attempt  to  make  a  way  for  a  bur- 
glary," Mr.  Carstoe  said. 

"  No  doubt  of  it,"  Darrell  replied. 

He  began  to  speak  of  other  matters,  and  pres- 
ently took  his  leave,  gay  and  sparkling  to  the 
last. 

After  Vaughan  had  gone  Mr.  Carstoe  fell  into 
one  of  his  states  of  embarrassment.  Launce 
knew  that  he  had  something  to  reveal.  It  was 
his  way  in  such  cases  to  flatter  and  bounce,  and 
behave  generally  like  a  fly  hitting  his  head  against 
a  window-pane. 

It  was  only  to  confess  to  Launce  that  he  had 
told  Mrs.  Vaughan  the  story  of  the  forged  check 
— that  is,  as  much  as  was  known ;  old  Mr. 
Vaughan's  first  anger  and  his  final  recognition 
of  his  nephew's  innocence. 

"I  could  see  she  was  prejudiced,"  he  said; 
"  it  was  her  father's  doing.  I  couldn't  help  set- 
ting it  straight.  I  suppose,  considering  the  cod- 
icil and  all,  you  know,  it  was  a  delicate  subject 
to  Vaughan— don't  you  see  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  see,"  returned  Launce  wearily, 
then  tried  to  rouse  himself.  "  It  was  very  good 
of  you,  Carstoe.  I  am  much  obliged  all  the 
same  ;  I  am  not  likely  to  see  much  of  my  cousin 
or  his  wife." 

"  But  you  feel  that  he  means  to  be  kind  ;  that 
he  is  friendly,  as  I  told  you  he  was  ?"  demanded 
Mr.  Carstoe,  anxiously. 

"Oh,  of  course  —  of  course.  Vaughan  has 
about  the  most  charming  manners  of  any  man  I 
ever  met." 

So  Mr.  Carstoe  was  enabled  to  think  that  the 
slight  clouds  which  might  have  separated  the 
two  had  been  swept  aside,  and  he  rejoiced  in  the 
knowledge,  privately  designing  to  relate  the 
whole  interview  to  Mrs.  Vaughan,  because  he 
considered  it  greatly  to  the  credit  of  both  cousins. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

READING     THE     LETTER. 

So  Launce  went  to  the  dinner  and  called  twice 
at  the  house  afterward.  He  met  Vaughan  and 
his  wife  almost  every  night  at  the  parties  and 
receptions  from  which  he  could  find  no  reason- 
able excuse  for  staying  away,  though  Launce 
was  scarcely  more  of  a  society  man  than  artists 
in  general.  tt 

Elizabeth's  life,  or  rather  she  herself,  reminded 
him  always  of  a  beautiful  strain  of  music  which 
some  one  insisted  on  playing  in  the  wrong  key, 
and  that  not  from  ignorance,  but  cruelty. 

They  talked  a  great  deal  together,  always 
upon  general  subjects,  of  course ;  but  Launce's 
perceptions  went  deeper  into  the  reality  of  her 
existence  than  those  of  the  world  about.  He 
saw  beyond  the  veil  of  resolute  composure  which 


her  associates  called  coldness  and  haughtiness. 
To  him,  in  spite  of  its  beauty,  her  face  was  the 
saddest  he  had  ever  seen.  The  eager  longing, 
the  great  want,  the  bitter  disappointment,  the 
struggle  for  patience — they  were  all  visible  to 
his  sight.  The  subtle  sympathies  between  their 
natures,  which  Elizabeth  herself  did  not  as  yet 
realize  or  reflect  upon,  enabled  him  to  look 
straight  into  her  soul  through  the  disguises 
which  pride  and  wisdom  alike  taught  her  to 
bring  to  her  aid. 

So  a  fortnight  went  by.  There  came  one 
evening  a  note  to  Launce — an  invitation  to 
another  of  Vaughan's  dinners.  It  was  a  little 
thing,  but  somehow  the  thrill  of  pleasure  with 
which  he  held  the  billet  and  gazed  at  the  lines 
Elizabeth's  hand  had  penned  roused  Cromlin 
for  the  first  time  to  a  perception  of  his  own 
state  of  mind. 

He  did  not  go  out  that  night,  though  he  was 
due  at  a  house  where  he  would  have  met  Eliza- 
beth. He  stayed  resolutely  at  home,  because 
he  was  forced  now  to  recognize  the  reason  of 
the  new  delight  he  had  of  late  found  in  such 
scenes.  The  result  of  his  meditations  was  a  re- 
solve to  cut  short  his  stay  in  town — to  depart  at 
once. 

Elizabeth's  face  haunted  him,  the  memory  of 
the  old  dream  had  returned,  and  its  golden  light 
rendered  her  still  more  beautiful  to  his  sight. 
So  Launce  knew  that  the  prudent  and  only  right 
course  would  be  to  go  away  ;  and  he  was  not  a 
man  to  hesitate  for  an  instant  after  he  perceived 
the  truth. 

At  present  he  could  conscientiously  assert 
that  it  was  the  recollection  of  his  bewildering 
vision  which  caused  him  unrest ;  but  if  he  lin- 
gered he  might  later  be  obliged  to  admit  a  more 
humiliating  fact,  and  feel,  too,  that  the  fresh 
trouble  had  been  brought  about  by  his  weakness 
in  having  remained  in  spite  of  his  own  convic- 
tions that  he  ought  to  go. 

The  time  would  come — must  come — when  he 
could  meet  this  woman  and  recollect  only  that 
she  was  his  cousin's  wife,  in  no  way  connecting 
her  with  the  rudely  dispelled  dream  which  dur- 
ing a  few  months  had  lifted  his  life  into  fairy- 
land—  a  dream  which,  perhaps,  must  always 
haunt  him  with  a  vague  feeling  of  disappoint- 
ment, as  though  he  had  lost  some  precious  treas- 
ure, without  which  existence  would  lack  a  cer- 
tain fullness  and  perfection. 

But  now  he  must  go — go  without  delay. 

He  called  the  next  morning  at  Vaughan's 
louse  to  make  his  farewells.  A  resolution  once 
"ormed,  he  did  not  dally  :  he  was  going  away  on 
the  same  evening.  He  tried  first  to  write  a  note  ; 
a  good  many  notes  were  attempted,  in  fact,  but 
none  suited  him  :  either  they  sounded  stiff  or 
;ontained  polite  falsehoods  ;  and  he  so  wanted 
to  see  her  once  more — just  once.  He  was  pre- 
jared  to  be  inexorable  with  his  weakness,  but  it 


JOtf 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


was  scarcely  in  human  nature  to  have  resisted 
the  pleasure  of  that  last  visit.  Darrell  had  gone 
out,  but  the  servant  thought  Mrs.Vaughan  was 
at  home.  "While  Launce  waited  in  a  reception- 
room,  the  notes  of  a  piano  rang  softly  down  from 
the  apartment  overhead,  marvelously  sweet,  as 
the  voice  of  that  much-abused  instrument  really 
is  when  some  rare  player  succeeds  in  rousing  the 
soul  hidden  under  the  cold  white  keys.  The 
music  ceased.  Presently  the  man  came  back : 
Mrs.Vaughan  would  receive  the  visitor.  When 
Launce  entered  the  chamber— half  library,  half 
morning-room — where  Elizabeth  read  and  work- 
ed, she  was  standing  near  the  piano.  He  could 
have  sworn,  when  the  tones  struck  his  ear,  that 
her  hand  awakened  them.  She  moved  forward 
to  receive  him  with  a  light  in  her  eyes  which  he 
comprehended  had  no  connection  whatever  with 
his  arrival.  The  interrupted  melody  was  still 
whispering  to  her. 

"  Unless  you  will  be  good  enough  to  go  on," 
he  said,  after  the  first  salutations,  "  I  shall  wish 
I  had  stayed  down -stairs — I  could  hear  you 
there." 

"I  had  found  a  book  of  masses  and  fugues 
that  I  picked  up  in  Germany,"  she  answered. 
"I  will  play  you  something  else  if  you  like.  I 
keep  these  for  my  own  private  delectation,  be- 
cause I  can  seldom  persuade  any  body  to  be  fond 
of  them." 

"  I  know  the  collection,"  he  said,  turning  over 
the  pages.  "  It  is  a  rare  old  book  ;  how  for- 
tunate you  are  to  possess  it." 

So  she  played  and  he  listened  ;  then  they  wan- 
dered into  talk  suggested  by  the  music.  The 
picture  of  Launce  which  Elizabeth  had  purchased 
hung  near  the  piano-forte.  It  gave  him  a  keen 
feeling  of  pleasure  to  see  that  something  of  his 
had  found  a  place  in  her  favorite  retreat ;  but 
when  she  spoke  of  the  painting,  he  did  not  at- 
tempt any  small  compliment  to  that  effect,  such 
as  one  would  have  paid  an  ordinary  woman. 

He  knew  intuitively  that  the  room  was  a  haunt 
she  loved,  and  its  arrangement  her  own  design. 
The  walls  were  hung  with  gray  of  a  somewhat 
severe  tint,  which  suited  Launce's  artistic  eyes, 
l>ecause  it  brought  out  the  pictures  so  admirably. 
( >f  these  there  were  not  many,  but  every  painting 
was  a  gem — a  couple  of  veritable  Titians  among 
them,  and  a  copy  of  a  Raphael  by  Giulio  Rq- 
inano,  preserving  the  spirit  of  the  master  as  only 
he  could  do.  The  purchase  of  these  three  works 
had  been  Elizabeth's  sole  girlish  extravagance. 
A  gallery  in  Venice  was  being  denuded  of  its 
treasures  during  one  of  her  visits  there,  and  she 
i-.i'l  not  been  able  to  resist  these,  though  the 
cabinet  Madonna  alone  was  almost  priceless,  for 
many  art-judges  declared  it  an  original  Raphael, 
and  had  fought  numerous  battles  in  regard  to  the 
matter. 

Hut  in  spite  of  the  gray  hangings,  and  the  size 
and  lightness  of  the  apartment,  it  looked  neither 


sombre  nor  cold.  The  carpet  was  like  a  bed  of 
leaves  that  the  frosts  have  turned  to  a  golden 
brown  ;  rays  of  vivid  color  were  scattered  here 
and  there ;  on  the  walls,  against  shields  of  bright- 
tinted  velvet,  were  placed  rare  cinque-cento  plates 
and  Etruscan  cups.  There  was  antique  carved 
furniture,  which  had  been  brought  from  some 
ancient  palace  across  seas,  covered  with  pale  silk 
that  had  flowers  and  quaint  devices  woven  over 
it  in  blue  and  silver.  Rare  vases  stood  upon  the 
tables ;  a  glorious  marble  nymph  lived  in  a  re- 
cess at  one  end  of  the  chamber ;  stands  of  odor- 
ous blossoms  brightened  every  corner :  the  whole 
place  looked  not  only  luxurious  and  picturesque, 
but  home-like  and  womanly. 

A  room  that  was  a  poem,  Launce  thought ; 
as  plain  to  read  as  any  written  expression  of  its 
owner's  pure  tastes  and  lovely  fancies  could  have 
been.  And  the  woman  herself,  sitting  there  in 
the  midst,  with  her  pearl  -  colored  robe  falling 
about  her  in  statuesque  folds,  filmy  lace  and 
ribbons  of  bright  color  lighting  it  up — every  at- 
titude she  assumed  as  graceful  as  a  picture — 
the  sad,  proud  face  glorified  by  the  lambent  eyes 
and  the  dark  splendor  of  her  hair — hair  such  as 
the  old  masters  delighted  to  paint,  which  altered 
in  its  hues  with  every  movement  of  her  head, 
just  as  her  eyes  changed  color  with  each  passing 
emotion. 

Those  eyes!  he  could  not  tell  if  they  were 
brown  or  blue.  Black  he  would  have  said 
when  the  long  lashes  partially  veiled  them  for 
an  instant — then  positively  golden  in  their  ra- 
diance as  they  shone  out  full  again,  luminous 
with  some  sudden  thought.  He  did  not  know 
that  few  people  ever  saw  her  look  as  she  did 
while  their  pleasant  conversation  took  its  course. 
It  was  so  seldom  nowadays  that  she  met  any 
one  who  cared  for  the  subjects  upon  which  she 
liked  to  talk ;  so  seldom  she  could  sufficiently 
forget  the  disappointment  and  emptiness  of  her 
life  to  grow  visionary  and  enthusiastic,  as  had 
been  so  easy  in  the  old  time ;  but  Launce's 
earnestness  and  enthusiasm  affected  her  uncon- 
sciously. 

From  music  and  Launce's  *'  St.  Agnes's  Eve" 
to  reminiscences  of  foreign  lands,  to  the  books 
which  treat  of  art  and  kindred  subjects,  and 
Cromlin  ventured  to  fall  foul  of  sundry  great 
critics,  whose  dogmatic  assertions  most  people 
consider  themselves  bound  to  accept  for  gospel. 

"Yon  are  very  bold,"  Elizabeth  said  with  a 
smile.  "  It  quite  takes  n»  breath  away ;  though 
several  times,  in  Paris  and  London,  I  have  met 
those  men,  and  felt  a  rebellious  desire  to  con- 
tradict the  magnificent  theories  they  poured  out 
with  a  sort  of  pitying  condescension  for  the  weak 
intellects  of  their  listeners." 

"It  seems  to  me  absurd,''  Launce  said,  after 
they  had  pursued  the  topic  a  little  further,  "to 
talk  about  gradations  in  art  —  I  mean  for  one 
set  of  art  servitors  to  rank  itself  above  another ; 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


107 


fur  instance,  that  the  historical  painter  should 
put  himself  on  a  grade  above  the  delineator  of 
landscapes,  or  the  sculptor  above  them  both." 

"Now  I  think  I  do  not  catch  your  meaning," 
Elizabeth  answered.  "  What  is  your  creed  ?" 

"I  should  style  Art  a  grand  soul  calling  to 
men  out  of  the  infinite ;  all  forms  of  art,  as  we 
term  them,  only  the  voices  of  that  soul  where- 
with she  strives  to  lift  men  toward  the  light — up 
to  the  beautiful  and  true." 

"  Yes,I  understand,"  Elizabeth  said.  "Music, 
sculpture,  painting,  poetry — Art's  voices  calling 
to  men." 

"In  certain  ways  all  blend.  We  say  of  a 
statue,  it  is  a  poem ;  of  a  poem,  it  is  a  picture  ; 
of  a  picture,  it  is  a  dramatic  scene ;  of  a  great 
actor's  effort,  that  it  is  the  picture  and  poem  put 
into  action." 

"Yet  the  latter  critics  rank  the  lowest,  be- 
cause it  is  so  ephemeral  in  its  influence." 

"They  might  as  well  say  a  flood  of  sunshine 
is  lost,  or  that  the  world  has  forgotten  Apelles, 
because  the  actual  works  themselves  have  per- 
ished." 

"And  you  admit  of  no  independent  forms  of 
art?" 

"The  thing  seems  to  me  an  impossibility. 
Art  must  remain  one  and  indivisible.  The  ex- 
pressions or  voices  of  the  great  soul  unite  in 
harmony  —  no  voice  perfect  in  itself — needing 
the  whole  to  make  the  diapason  complete. 
Leave  out  a  single  tone — music,  poetry,  acting, 
what  you  will — it  is  like  an  organ  with  one  key 
silenced." 

"Yet  some  particular  form  —  expression,  if 
you  please — appeals  much  more  strongly  to  each 
man's  mind  than  the  others,  as  a  rule." 

"Naturally  enough.  No  human  being  can 
take  in  the  glorious  whole  in  its  completeness ; 
that  would  be  to  comprehend  the  spirit  which 
controls  the  voices  ;  it  would  be  comprehending 
Infinity." 

"And  so  many  mistake  the  voices  altogether !" 

' '  Of  course.  There  are  numberless  false  voices 
shrieking  through  the  world.  Men  rush  after  and 
believe  in  them,  as  men  believe  in  false  Christs, 
too  deaf  and  blind  to  distinguish  between  the 
false  and  true.  There  are  so  many  pretenders 
—  in  literature,  sculpture  — men  who  think  of 
money  only,  or  who  arrogate  strength  to  them- 
selves, forgetful  that  they  are  but  the  mediums 
through  which  Art  makes  herself  audible." 

' '  I  think  the  promulgation  of  your  theory  might 
bring  about  a  little  desirable  humility  among  the 
servants  of  the  great  God,"  Elizabeth  said. 

Launce  laughed. 

"  I  just  remember,"  replied  he,  "  I  have  been 
talking  as  dogmatically  as  the  critics  I  presumed 
to  assail." 

"  There  is  a  vast  difference  between  assertion 
and  the  expression  of  earnest  conviction,"  re- 
turned Elizabeth. 


"At  least  it  is  very  civil  of  you  to  offer  me 
that  loophole  of  escape,"  Launce  said,  laughing 
still. 

Presently  a  clock  in  the  adjoining  room  warned 
Launce  that  he  was  making  a  visit  of  unconscion- 
able length,  for  he  remembered  already  to  have 
heard  it  strike  the  .hour — a  few  minutes  before, 
it  seemed  to  him,  time  being  so  entirely  a  rela- 
tive term. 

"We  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  to- 
morrow night?"  Elizabeth  said,  as  he  began  to 
express  his  contrition  for  the  long  stay. 

Her  words  brought  back  the  reason  for  his  call. 

' '  I  had  forgotten  that  I  came  to  bid  you 
good-bye,"  he  answered,  and  the  words  sounded 
very  sad  in  his  own  ears.  "I  leave  town  this 
evening.  I  must  beg  you  to  accept  my  excuses, 
and  make  my  farewell  to  Vaughan." 

"You  do  not  return  this  spring?" 

"  No  ;  certainly  not  this  spring." 

"I  am  sorry,"  replied  Elizabeth,  frankly. 

Launce  only  bowed.  His  lost  dream-world 
looked  perilously  fair,  the  reality  cold  and  gray. 
He  seemed  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  two,both  vis- 
ible, though  separated  by  more  than  the  breadth 
of  a  universe,  and  this  woman  standing  between, 
in  her  glorious  loveliness. 

Then  he  recollected  that  just  at  present  his 
business  was  to  speak  certain  fitting  words,  and 
take  his  departure.  It  was  like  going  away  from 
the  last  gleam  of  radiance  wherewith  that  dream- 
realm  had  flooded  his  soul. 

So  there  came  a  brief  silence.  Eli/.abeth  re- 
membered once,  in  an  out-of-the-way  part  of 
Spain,  entering  a  beautiful  garden,  and  spending 
the  whole  morning  there,  while  she  awaited  the 
conveyance  which  was  to  carry  them  forward  on 
their  journey — a  spot  she  was  not  likely  ever  to 
visit  again.  Perhaps  for  that  very  reason  the 
lovely  haunt  had  always  kept  a  prominent  place 
in  her  recollection. 

Whenever  she  thought  of  it  she  could  fairly 
hear  the  murmur  of  the  fountain  as  it  plashed 
into  its  marble  basin,  the  cooing  of  the  doves  as 
they  fluttered  about  it,  the  humming  of  the  bees 
among  the  orange-flowers,  the  patchas  of  shadow 
under  a  group  of  cypress-trees — could  catch  the 
glory  of  the  distant  Sierra,  and  the  marvelous 
white  clouds  that  drifted  across  the  opal  sky. 

She  thought  of  the  spot  now,  and  mentally 
compared  this  hour  spent  with  Cromlin  to  that 
day.  She  was  not  absolutely  regretting  the  fact 
that  they  were  not  likely  to  meet  soon  again  or 
often,  yet  for  this  reason  the  morning  was  a  thing 
to  treasure  as  she  did  the  memory  of  the  Spanish 
garden  amid  whose  beauty  she  should  never  wan- 
der any  more.  Then  both  became  suddenly  aware 
of  the  silence,  and  began  speaking  of  ordinary 
things.  As  Launce  took  his  hat  from  the  table, 
some  careless  movement  scattered  a  pile  of  photo- 
graphs which  Elizabeth  had  put  there  to  arrange 
in  an  album. 


103 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR 


Launce  picked  up  the  pictures  with  a  laugh- 
ing remark  upon  his  own  awkwardness ;  then  he 
perceived  a  portrait  of  his  uncle  among  them. 

"Is  it  like?"  Elizabeth  asked,  bending  her 
head  to  see  which  had  attracted  his  attention,  as 
she  noticed  his  face  grow  suddenly  grave. 

"  It  was  taken  not  long  before  his  death ;  Mr. 
Carstoe  showed  me  one,"  Launce  said.  "I  had 
not  seen  my  uncle  for  five  years.  He  must  have 
changed  a  great  deal.  The  face  had  aged,  and 
it  used  not  to  look  so  careworn — so  hopeless  and 
despondent." 

He  sighed,  remembering  how  great  a  share 
the  black  clouds  which  had  risen  between  him 
and  his  relative  had  in  causing  this  alteration. 
Elizabeth  comprehended  what  was  in  his  mind, 
and  said  gently — 

"But  he  knew  at  the  last — he  had  this  great 
happiness.  You  must  always  remember  that." 

"Yes,"  he  replied. 

But  he  was  thinking  of  the  sympathy  there 
was  between  him  and  this  woman.  Few  and 
brief  as  their  meetings  had  been,  it  was  already 
a  marked  and  pleasant  thing,  this  ability  that 
each  possessed  to  divine  the  feelings  and  fancies 
of  the  other.  Then  he  remembered  that  he  had 
no  right  to  dwell  upon  this  thought.  It  must 
be  put  away  along  with  all  the  host  of  bright 
chances  which  his  last  dream  had  held  —  the 
treasures  never  touched,  the  happiness  never  to 
be  grasped,  the  whole  round  of  golden  possibilities 
that  lay  buried  in  the  irrevocable  past,  with  those 
saddest  of  human  words  engraved  upon  their 
tomb,  "It  might  have  been !" 

"Every  thing  connected  with  his  memory  is 
very  dear  to  me,"  Elizabeth  continued,  softly. 
"I  like  to  talk  with  Mr.  Carstoe  about  him,  to 
make  myself  feel  that  I  really  knew  him." 

"  You  would  have  loved  him  dearly,  I  am  cer- 
tain," Launce  replied. 

"I  have  a  letter  that  he  wrote  me,"  pursued 
Elizabeth.  "  I  suppose  you  did  not  know  that. 
Such  a  beautiful  letter!  I  could  not  speak  of 
it  to  any  other  friend,  because  it  holds  a  secret 
which  was  his ;  but  I  should  like  you  to  see  it. " 

Again  Launce  only  bowed  his  head.  He  was 
too  much  surprised — more  than  that — too  much 
annoyed,  to  answer.  That  she  could  speak  to 
him  of  the  strange  arrangement  the  dead  man 
had  devised  whereby  his  two  nephews  were  to 
have  equal  opportunities  o£( winning  her  regard 
— to  him,  the  loser — showed  a  lack  of  tact  and 
delicacy  of  which  an  ordinary  woman  might  have 
been  guilty  from  frivolity,  vanity,  or  coquetry ; 
but  coming  from  her,  the  speech  gave  him  a  pos- 
itive shock. 

Elizabeth  had  opened  her  writing-desk  and 
taken  out  the  letter. 

"  I  always  keep  it  here,"  she  said,  "  it  is  so  lov- 
ing and  sweet.  It  seems  to  bring  me  so  near  him." 

Still  Launce  did  not  speak.  She  looked  up. 
He  had  grown  pale ;  his  mouth  was  set  hard  unJ 


stern  under  his  drooping  mustache.  There  was 
not  only  grief,  but  an  expression  of  disappoint- 
ment, of  absolute  reproof,  in  his  eyes,  which  start- 
led her. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said ;  "  I  am  afraid 
I  have  pained  you.  I  thought  you  might  like 
to  see  the  last  letter  he  ever  wrote.  It  was 
thoughtless  of  me  to  forget  that  just  for  this  rea- 
son it  would  be — " 

She  hesitated,  and  Launce  said  coldly — 

"Not  for  that  reason." 

The  color  rose  in  her  cheeks;  she  was  hurt 
rather  than  angry.  Darrell  or  Mr.  Carstoe  had 
told  him  of  the  romance  of  Mr.  Vaughan's  life 
which  this  letter  revealed,  and  he  thought  it  in- 
delicate for  her  to  speak  of  the  matter.  Such 
judgment — above  all,  the  betrayal  of  it  —  was 
not  only  unjust,  it  was  an  impertinence.  She 
felt  a  sudden  pang  of  disappointment  in  her  turn 
— the  man's  nature  was  not  what  she  had  sup- 
posed. 

"I  see  you  think  I  have  done  wrong,"  she 
said,  and  her  voice  sounded  at  once  tremulous 
and  proud.  "  We  do  not  think  alike.  To  me 
the  little  romance  is  very  beautiful  and  sacred. 
I  did  not  even  suppose  you  knew — my  husband 
or  Mr.  Carstoe  has  told  you — " 

She  stopped  again.  She  was  terribly  annoyed ; 
almost  angry  enough  now  to  have  left  him,  had 
he  not  been  a  visitor  in  her  own  house. 

"  I  believe  we  misunderstand  each  other,  Mrs. 
Vanghan,"  Launce  said,  coloring  too. 

"Yes — we  do — since  you  can  find  any  impro- 
priety in  my  speaking  of  the  cause  which  makes 
your  uncle's  memory  so  dear  to  me,"  she  an- 
swered. "Under  other  circumstances  he  would 
have  been  simply  my  husband's  relative — a  man 
entirely  unknown  to  me.  But  the  fact  that  he 
loved  my  mother  makes  me  feel — "  , 

"I  did  not  kriouy'  he  interrupted  quickly. 
"You  are  misjudging  me,  Mrs.  Vaughan — in- 
deed you  are." 

"Excuse  me,"  she  exclaimed,  impulsively. 
' '  I  told  you  I  had  a  hasty  temper — I  have  been 
positively  rude." 

"  Xo,  no !"  he  said. 

Iti  truth  he  did  not  know  what  to  say  ;  he  was 
utterly  bewildered.  One  thing  was  certain :  she 
had  been  thoughtless — she  had  net  shown  indel- 
icacy or  a  want  of  tact.  She  was  thinking  only 
of  the  romance  which  connected  her  dead  mother 
and  his  uncle  in  her  mind — so  full  of  it  that  she 
did  not  remember  the  terms  of  the  codicil  or  the 
share  given  to  him  (Launce)  therein. 
.  "Yes,  I  was  rude,"  she  continued,  with  the 
rare  smile  that  made  her  face  almost  childlike 
in  its  sweetness.  "I  forgot  that  you  do  not 
know  me  well — that  your  uncle's  loss  is  always 
a  grief  and  pain  to  you — that  to  hear  an  almost 
entire  stranger  laying  a  claim  to  his  affection 
would  naturally  give  you. a  sort  of  odd,  jealous 
feeling." 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


109 


"  But  indeed  it  is  all  a  mistake,"  he  said,  ear- 
nestly. "I  know  nothing  about  the  romance; 
tell  me,  please." 

"  You  shall  read  the  letter  if  you  like,"  Eliza- 
beth replied.  She  glanced  down  the  pages  as  she 
spoke.  A  new  pain,  in  which  her  companion 
had  no  share,  struck  her  heart.  She  was  won- 
dering if  the  dead  man  could  know  how  yielding 
to  his  plan  had  utterly  wrecked  her  happiness — 
if  he  could  see  the  weariness,  the  disappointment 
of  her  life.  How  could  he  be  at  rest  up  in  the 
heavenly  light  knowing  ?  Yet  if  those  gone  for- 
ward into  the  eternal  sunshine  do  not  perceive 
what  befalls  their  loved  ones  on  earth,  how  can 
they  be  near,  as  we  believe  they  are  ? 

Then  the  trouble  died ;  Faith  brought  an  an- 
swer. They  might  see ;  they  might  sympathize, 
and  yet  be  at  peace;  for  they  behold  what  we 
are  ignorant  of — God's  plan.  They  understand 
how  our  present  tribulation  is  for  the  soul's  de- 
velopment, and  worketh  out  an  eternal  weight  of 
glory. 

The  light  came  back  to  her  eyes — a  look  of 
inexpressible  patience  and  trust  fairly  transfig- 
ured her  mournful  loveliness. 

Of  what  was  she  thinking? — where  had  her 
soul  gone?  Launce  gazed  and  wondered,  but 
he  could  not  ask. 

How  petty  and  miserable  it  had  been  in  him 
for  one  instant  to  hold  her  capable  of  an  unwor- 
thy thought  or  act.  He  had  no  part  in  her  past ; 
she  had  never  seen  him  before  her  marriage.  It 
was  natural  she  should  forget  that  the  codicil 
(whose  terms  were  detailed,  of  course,  in  the  let- 
ter) could  ever  in  any  way  have  affected  him. 
To  attempt  explanation  was  an  impossibility;  no 
conversation  upon  that  subject  could  ever  take 
place  between  them :  she  was  Darrell's  wife — 
DarreH's  wife ! 

His  head  whirled  ;  the  hand  he  was  extending 
for  the  letter  trembled  so  that  he  let  it  drop  upon 
the  table.  Elizabeth,  still  full  of  her  fancy,  did 
not  observe  him.  He  wanted  to  break  the  silence 
—  to  talk  —  to  get  away  from  the  wild  thoughts 
that  stung.  He  meant  to  ask  for  the  letter ;  in 
his  pain  and  bewilderment  he  asked  instead — 

"May  I  see  the  codicil?" 

As  soon  as  the  word  was  uttered  he  realized 
what  he  had  said,  but  she  betrayed  no  confusion. 
She  only  looked  surprised  as  she  answered — 

"  I  never  saw  the  codicil ;  the  will,  you  know, 
was  drawn  up  in  California. " 

"  I  think  my  head  is  quite  astray  this  morn- 
ing," returned  he,  trying  to  smile. 

Then  he  became  so  utterly  confused  that  he 
added — "  I  meant  the  letter.  You  must  wonder 
whether  I  am  more  boor  or  idiot  to  have  men- 
tfoned  the  other." 

She  was  still  more  surprised  at  what  she  took 
for  embarrassment,  and  said  laughingly — 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  an  engaged  young  lady  to  be 
nervous  about  the  matter." 


But  it  was  difficult  to  speak  lightly  of  that  re- 
quest of  the  dead  man  which  had  brought  her 
such  misery.  Had  she  been  a  happy  wife  the 
romance  might  have  formed  a  pleasant  enough 
story  to  discuss  with  her  intimates — but  now ! 
Before  the  speech  fairly  ended,  Launce  saw  her 
brows  contract — her  face  suddenly  lose  its  color. 
All  he  could  think  was  that  she,  for  the  fiist 
time,  remembered  the  dead  man  had  meant  him 
also  to  be  considered  in  that  bequest. 

"  I  had  forgotten — " 

Then  she  stopped  short  after  this  beginning. 
She  had  intended  to  say  she  had  forgotten  to  add 
that  the  letter  gave  no  mention  of  the  codicil. 
Of  course  Launce  interpreted  the  unfinished  sen- 
tence to  mean  that  she  had  forgotten  he  had  any 
part  therein. 

She  did  not  end  the  phrase.  She  wished  to 
leave  the  subject,  for  fear  it  might  call  forth  some 
complimentary  words — some  expression  of  pleas- 
ure that  his  uncle's  wishes  had  been  realized. 
She  did  not  want  to  hear  such  speeches  and  be 
obliged  to  utter  falsehoods  in  answer — say  things 
which  would  imply  content  and  happiness.  Her 
heart  was  too  sore  for  such  deceit :  so  she  paused. 

But  it  was  unfortunate  that  she  stopped,  be- 
cause Launce  felt  bound  to  answer  what  to  him 
her  words  implied.  His  confusion  was  gone  — 
he  felt  cold  and  tired — but  he  was  calm  enough. 

"  Under  other  circumstances  it  would  have 
been  a  matter  I  could\iot  mention,"  he  said.  "I 
never  thought — nor  did  you,  I  know — to  speak 
of  it — but — " 

She  did  not  really  hear  his  words — only  fancied 
that  after  all  he  was  going  to  utter  the  compliments 
— the  congratulations ;  and  she  said  hastily — 

"No,  no !"  Then  got  her  senses  back  enough 
to  remember  that  a  refusal  would  be  a  sort  of 
tacit  confession  that  her  marriage  had  proved  a 
mistake  and  disappointment.  "  I  shall  let  you 
read  the  letter  now." 

He  took  it  from  her  hand  and  read  the  pages, 
while  Elizabeth  sat  thinking  of  all  that  lay  be- 
tween her  and  those  bright  Italian  days  when 
she  had  first  perused  those  lines. 

"I  loved  your  mother,"  Edgar  Vaughan  wrote. 
"  Your  father  won  the  prize  I  coveted.  As  I 
look  back  over  my  long,  dull  life,  I  find  always 
that  love  and  disappointment  standing  out  the 
.most  important  events  in  my  whole  past.  It  has 
been  my  dream  that  your  mother's  child  might 
become  connected  with  me  by  ties  which  should 
bring  you  close  to  my  side.  If  life  is  spared  I 
shall  tell  you  these  things  with  my  own  lips.  If 
my  pilgrimage  is  near  its  end,  I  desire  that  at 
least  you  should  read  this  confession  of  my  hopes 
and  wishes.  I  am  ill  and  suffering  now — per- 
haps even  this  letter  will  not  sound  clear  and 
coherent.  Two  weeks  ago  a  great  joy  came  to 
me — only  yesterday  a  new  blow  struck  my  heart. 
I  am  too  old  and  broken  to  bear  either  happiness 
or  pain. 


110 


MRVAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


"la  the  trouble  and  confusion  of  my  thoughts 
it  is  a  rest  to  pen  this  letter.  I  write  with  your 
mother's  picture  lying  beside  me — with  those 
beautiful  eyes  smiling  at  me  like  a  promise  of 
peace  that  awaits  beyond  this  weary  world.  They 
tell  me  you  resemble  her.  I  know  much  of  you, 
my  child,  though  you  may  scarcely  have  heard 
my  name. 

"This  is  what  the  foolish  old  man  has  dreamed, 
dear  Elizabeth.  I  hope  to  see  you  my  nephew's 
wife — I  hope  when  spring  comes  to  be  able  to 
seek  you  with  him.  But  if  that  last  great  pleas- 
ure is  denied  me,  one  day  he  will  give  this  letter 
to  you  himself,  after  he  has  told  you  his  own  sto- 
ry. For  he  will  love  you.  That  certainly  is  as 
strong  in  my  mind  as  if  a  voice  from  heaven  had 
whispered  it.  Your  mother,  when  she  comes  to 
me  in  my  dreams,  has  never  foiled  to  utter  that 
promise.  How  good  and  noble  he  is  you  will 
perceive  for  yourself.  The  tale  of  his  youthful 
struggles — his  patience — his  fortitude — you  will 
learn  from  him. 

"It  is  a  conviction  in  my  mind  that  he  will 
win  your  affection.  I  try  to  believe  that  I  shall 
live  to  see  you  happy  together ;  but  if  that  may 
not  be,  I  want  this  brief  record  to  prove  how  dear 
you  are  to  me — what  the  tie  is  that  knits  my  soul 
to  yours.  Perhaps  I  shall  never  tell  even  him 
the  secret  of  my  past,  but  when  I  am  gone,  and 
this  letter  is  in  your  hands,  you  will  tell  him, 
and  you  will  both  remember  that  I  see  and  en- 
joy your  happiness. " 

While  Launce  read,  Elizabeth  sat  occupied 
with  bitter  reflections.  His  blundering  mention 
of  the  codicil  had  roused  a  score  of  painful  mem- 
ories. Of  course,  when  Darrell  and  Mr.  Crau- 
ford  spoke  of  it  to  her,  they  explained  its  con- 
ditions as  referring  only  to  Darrell  himself. 
Elizabeth  had  expressed  a  wish  that  after  their 
marriage  the  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
dollars  might  be  wholly  devoted  to  charitable 
purposes.  Vaughan  had  promised  this — had 
arranged  with  her  the  precise  uses  for  which  the 
money  should  be  employed.  When  they  re- 
turned to  America,  and  she  found  that  he  did 
not  resume  the  subject,  she  spoke  of  it.  At  first 
he  put  her  off — the  property  was  somewhat  en- 
cumbered ;  after  a  while  that  portion  should  be 
used  as  she  desired.  But  when  he  began  to 
throw  aside  his  disguises,  he  openly  laughed  r ;, 
her  folly  in  expecting  him  to  carry  out  a  pledge 
which  lie  called  the  romantic  nonsense  of  a 
thoughtless  moment. 

Launce  read  the  letter  to  the  end,  growing 
colder  and  colder — with  anger  now  —  a  stern, 
hard  indignation  against  Darrell  Vaughan. 

His  suspicions,  that  even  in  this  matter  Darrell 
had  behaved  treacherously,  became  a  certainty 
now.  The  entry  he  had  found  in  his  uncle's  old 
note-book  took  a  fresh  significance.  That  entry 
had  been  penned  on  the  very  day  of  his  paralytic 
seizure— the  letter  to  Elizabeth  bore  the  same 


date.  He  spoke  of  a  great  happiness  which  had 
come  to  him  two  weeks  previous — that  was  the 
news  of  Launce's  innocence.  Only  the  day  be- 
fore that  writing  he  had  received  a  new  blow — 
the  entry  in  the  journal  proved  that  the  pain  was 
in  no  way  connected  with  Cromlin. 

A  sudden  light  struck  Launce's  mind.  .The 
nephew  Mr. Vaughan  had  spoken  of  in  that  letter 
was  Cromlin  himself!  In  the  will  which  had 
never  been  discovered — the  will  which  Mr.  Car- 
stoe  believed  had  not.  after  all,  been  made — Mr. 
Vaughan  proposed  no  division  of  his  fortune  be- 
tween his  nephews.  Mr.  Carstoe  thought  such 
had  been  his  intention — Launce  knew  that  it  was 
not  so.  Something  had  decided  him  to  leave 
Launce  sole  heir :  it  was  of  Launce  he  wrote  to 
Elizabeth. 

Cromlin  knew  this  as  well  as  if  the  dead  man's 
ghost  had  come  back  and  uttered  the  fact.  How 
had  Darrell  managed? — how  deep  was  his  guilt  ? 
Useless  to  question  ;  in  this  world  there  would 
never  be  an  answer. 

Launce  cared  nothing  for  the  fortune — Darrell 
should  have  been  welcome  to  it.  But  this  woman 
— this  glorious,  peerless  woman,  this  reality  of 
his  dream — swept  out  of  reach  of  his  life  by  Dar- 
rell's  falsehood,  DarreH's  skillfully  woven  web  of 
deceit  and  sin ! 

Launce  could  have  cried  the  whole  truth  in 
her  ears  as  she  sat  there  before  him  in  her  pale, 
sorrowful  beauty.  The  devils  that  tempt  us  all 
at  times  fought  fiercely  in  his  soul,  bidding  him 
do  this.  He  recognized  Elizabeth's  unhappiness 
— he  knew,  without  a  word  of  explanation,  just 
what  her  life  was.  She  had  been  hurried  into 
this  marriage  by  her  father's  illness ;  by  her  ten- 
der feeling  toward  the  dead  lover  of  her  mother 
in  that  mother's  girlhood  ;  deceived  by  Darrell's 
specious  eloquence,  his  charming  manners,  his 
noble  promises  ;  and  she  had  lived  to  know  him 
as  he  was,  as  Launce  knew  him — vile,  base,  de- 
graded. 

Yes,  to  tell  her  the  whole  truth,  that  was  his 
impulse.  He  shut  his  soul  against  the  insidious 
whispers — he  held  fust  to  his  reason,  and  con- 
quered. He  believed  in  honor — he  believed  in 
God.  He  could  neither  insult  this  woman  by  the 
revelation  of  his  love,  which  any  explanation  of 
the  truth  must  be,  nor  could  he  even  ask  her  to 
sully  her  soul  by  pity  for  his  pain — his  terrible  loss. 

He  must  get  away  ;  he  could  not  trust  himself 
longer  in  her  presence.  He  must  not  see  her 
again  until  time  had  given  him  strength  to  sup- 
port the  burden  which  this  day's  knowledge  ren- 
dered so  much  more  difficult  to  bear. 

He  arose — he  felt  that  he  almost  staggered — 
he  knew  there  was  a  terrible  revealing  in  his  face. 
"  I  shall  say  good-bye  now,''  he  said. 

Elizabeth  held  out  her  hand  ;  he  hesitated — 
he  dared  not  touch  it.  His  hesitation  made  her 
look  up :  she  saw  his  face,  pale,  shaken  with 
trouble  and  anguish. 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


She  could  not  understand,  but  she  could  not 
question  him.  (Something — that  letter — memo- 
ries of  his  uncle — what,  she  knew  not,  had  shaken 
him  to  the  very  soul.  His  gaze  was  on  her, 
mournful,  despairing — as  she  had  seen,  in  the 
dismal  vigils  grown  familiar,  her  lost  hopes  stare 
at  her  with  their  dying  eyes. 

She  longed  to  speak  some  words  of  comfort, 
but  in  her  uncertainty  as  to  what  had  caused 
his  pain,  she  feared  hurting  him  still  more. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  echoed,  softly. 

He  touched  her  hand  with  his  cold  fingers, 
and  went  quickly  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

BACK    TO     THE     CODICIL. 

ELIZABETH  sat  there  a  full  hour  after  Cromlin 
left  her ;  then  Mr.  Carstoe  was  shown  into  the 
room. 

He  had  taken  advantage  of  a  leisure  morning 
to  go  searching  among  all  the  hot-houses  for  a 
Californian  plant  of  which  he  had  spoken  to 
Mrs.  Vaughan.  He  found  it  at  last  hidden  in 
the  depths  of  a  botanical  garden  among  the  fast- 
nesses of  Brooklyn,  and  brought  it  away  in  tri- 
umph. 

He  was  amply  rewarded  for  his  trouble  by 
Elizabeth's  thanks  and  admiration  of  the  glossy- 
leafed  thing,  but  his  mind  was  a  good  deal  dis- 
tracted by  a  chance  meeting  with  Launce,  who 
had  been  on  the  way  to  visit  him  and  say  fare- 
well. 

"  Mr.  Cromliu  is  going  out  of  town,"  he  said, 
dolefully. 

"Yes,"  Elizabeth  replied  ;  "he  was  here  to 
bid  us  good-bye.  His  departure  is  sudden,  I 
think." 

"  Very,"  said  Carstoe.  "  He  is  going  to  visit 
some  friends  in  St.  Louis,  and  means  to  wander 
on  into  the  far  West  for  the  summer.  If  I  go 
back  to  California  in  the  autumn,  I  shall  not  see 
him  again.'' 

"  He  is  a  great  favorite  of  yours." 

"Yes  ;  I  rank  him  and  your  husband  side  by 
side.  I  feel  honored  by  their  goodness  in  liking 
me," he  said,  in  his  stiff,  jerky  way.  "And  you 
like  him  now,  Mrs.  Vaughan  ;  I  did  not  overrate 
his  pleasant  ways  ?" 

"I  like  him  very  much,"  Elizabeth  answered. 

Mr.  Carstoe  rubbed  his  gloves  into  a  ball  at 
once— a  sure  sign  of  satisfaction  with  him.  In- 
deed, he  felt  his  tongue  pressed  against  the  roof 
of  his  mouth,  and  only  just  saved  himself  from 
clucking  with  delight,  like  a  hen  or  an  indeco- 
rous school-boy,  growing  quite  red  with  dismay 
at  the  idea  of  having  gone  so  near  such  an  atroc- 
ity in  Mrs.Vaughan's  presence. 

"It  has  been  so  pleasant  to  see  him  here  at 
the  house  on  friendly  terms, "the  lawyer  con- 


Ill 

tinued.  "  I'm  sorry  he  is  going.  It  must  have 
been  a  sudden  idea.  He  said  nothing  about  it 
when  I  saw  him  yesterday,  and  I  thought  he 
looked  pale  and  worried. " 

It  had  not  been  her  fancy  then,  and  the  change 
had  come  upon  him  during  their  conversation. 
She  feared  that  she  had  distressed  him  by  the 
sight  of  his  uncle's  letter. 

"  I  have  had  no  opportunity  to  tell  you  some- 
thing which  happened  a  few  days  ago, "continued 
Carstoe,  presently.  "  I  knew  your  husband  would 
not,  because  it  was  so  much  to  his  own  credit — 
indeed,  they  both  behaved  admirably,  as  one 
might  be  sure  they  would  in  any  matter." 

"Mr. Vaughan  has  told  me  nothing,"  Eliza- 
beth said. 

"  He  went  to  Cromlin,  and  offered  to  share 
their  uncle's  fortune — was  earnest  and  splendid 
about  it — wasn't  it  fine  ?"  cried  Carstoe,  enthu- 
siastically. 

"And  Mr.  Cromlin?" 

"Oh,  he  would  take  nothing ;  but  he  admired 
his  cousin's  behavior,  and  appreciated  it.  They 
will  be  fast  friends  always  now,  those  two,"  Mr. 
Carstoe  said.  '.'  So  many  men  would  have  be- 
haved differently.  But  Cromlin  is  so  frank,  so 
large-minded.  The  two  cousins  are  a  great  deal 
alike,  in  fact, "he  added,  with  a  delightful  faith 
in  his  own  powers  of  comparison  and  ability  to 
read  character. 

"I  believe  the  will  left  Mr.  Cromlin  ten 
thousand  dollars,"  Elizabeth  observed,  speaking 
more  to  keep  the  old  man  from  fearing  that  she 
lacked  interest  in  the  topic  than  for  any  other 
reason. 

"Oh,  yes:  he'll  not  take  even  that  though; 
but  I  did  not  mean  about  the  money.  In  the 
other  matter  plenty  of  men  would  harbor  resent- 
ment, or  try  to  feel  themselves  ill  used." 

"  What  other  matter  ?" 

In  his  earnestness  Mr.  Carstoe  had  touched 
on  a  point  which  he  felt  himself  unjustifiable  in 
alluding  to.  He  grew  confused  again,  and  col- 
ored till  his  bald  head  shone. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — I  do  beg  your  pardon 
for  mentioning  it ;  and  Mr. Vaughan  had  cau- 
tioned me — he  said  the  codicil  was — did — had 
always — " 

Here  he  broke  down  completely,  and  sat  such 
a  picture  of  embarrassment,  done,  too,  in  as 
violent  a  purple  as  ever  the  most  insane  pre- 
Raphaelite  employed,  that  Elizabeth  would  kave 
pitied  his  trouble  had  she  not  been  too  much 
startled  by  his  words  to  notice  it. 

The  codicil  again !  The  recollection  of  his 
allusion  in  the  picture-gallery,  disregarded  at 
the  time,  flashed  upon  her ;  Cromliu's  agita- 
tion— annoyance  even — of  the  morning,  came 
back  too.  The  codicil!  How  far  was  she  in 
the  dark  ?  What  possible  part  or  interest  could 
Launce  Cromlin  have  had  therein  ?  Something 
there  was  which  she  did  not  in  the  least  under- 


112 


MR.  VATJGHAN'S  HEIR. 


stand.  Mr.  Carstoe  had  said  that  in  Gremlin's 
position  many  men  would  have  harbored  resent- 
ment against  her  husband. 

Dared  she  question  further  ?  .If  the  answer 
were  to  bring  some  new  proof  of  Vaughan's 
duplicity  —  though  she  could  not  imagine  how 
this  would  be  possible — she  should  feel  guilty  at 
having  done  any  thing  to  render  the  fact  patent 
to  her  mind. 

Her  face  changed  so  painfully  that  Mr.  Car- 
stoe was  almost  out  of  his  senses  from  a  fear 
that  he  had  hurt  or  annoyed  her. 

"  I  wish  I'd  been  born  dumb !"  he  exclaimed, 
penitently.  "Mr.Vaughfln  would  never  forgive 
me — quite  right,  too,  after  his  caution !  He  told 
me  the  subject  was  unpleasant  to  you,  and  here 
I  go  blundering  at  it  full  tilt,  like  a  bull  at  a  red 
cloth !" 

"  I  am  not  annoyed,"  Elizabeth  replied.  " I 
can  not  explain ;  but  indeed,  Mr.  Carstoe,  I  am 
not  vexed  with  you." 

There  was  a  secret — a  secret  which  Vaughan 
had  cautioned  this  man  to  keep  from  her.  She 
did  not  wish  to  hear  another  word ;  it  could  serve 
no  good  purpose. 

"  You  would  be  vexed  if  you  were  not  an  an- 
gel!" cried  poor  Carstoe,  and  then  shuddered 
with  horror  at  his  own  boldness,  becoming  so 
utterly  bewildered  that  he  stumbled  on  from 
bad  to  worse.  "I  only  wanted  to  show  you 
how  just  and  honorable  Cromlin  is.  Many  men 
would  have  hated  Vaughan  —  thought  he  took 
an  unjust  advantage — tried  to  think  so,  at  least 
— for  of  course  there  would  have  been  no  ground 
to  think — " 

Another  breakdown.  Elizabeth  was  only 
wondering  how  she  could  avoid  further  revela- 
tions without  strengthening  his  dread  of  having 
offended  her.  But  to  Mr.  Carstoe  her  silence 
was  the  surest  confirmation  of  his  fears,  and  he 
stammered — 

"Now  just  when  you  had  learned  to  like 
Launce  (of  course  I've  no  business  to  call  him 
so),  I  go  bringing  these  stupid  things  up !  Such 
a  noble  fellow !  Why,  when  the  news  of  the 
marriage  came,  he  had  only  the  kindest  wishes 
for  you  both.  Of  course,  he  would  have  gone 
to  Europe  long  before  that,  if  his  illness  had  not 
prevented.  He  never  told  me  so,  but  I  gathered 
it  from  what  he  let  fall." 

Then  he  stopped  ngain,  and  panted  and  puffed, 
nnd  Elizabeth's  eyes,  fastened  upon  him  full  of 
trouble,only  dazed  him  entirely,and  on  he  dashed, 
|>erfectly  incapable  of  checking  his  own  speech. 

"There  seemed  a  fate  in  it,  did  there  not? 
As  if  no  wish  of  his  uncle's  in  regard  to  him 
were  to  be  carried  out.  The  new  will  not  drawn 
up — then  Vaughan  won  the  prize  for  which  the 
codicil  meant  both  nephews  to  have  a  chance ; 
but  of  course  Launce  could  have  none,  since 
Vanghau  was  lucky  enough  to  gain  your  re- 
gard." 


He  could  only  choke  and  gasp  now — he  was 
past  further  words.  In  his  whole  life  Mr.  Car- 
stoe had  never  spoken  so  fast  nor  blundered  so 
horribly. 

Elizabeth's  limbs  trembled  under  her ;  a  tu- 
multuous throbbing  at  her  heart  sent  a  dizzying 
pain  to  her  head.  She  had  seized  the  full  im- 
port of  Mr.  Carstoe's  broken  words. 

Even  when  he  wooed  her  for  his  wife,  Darrell 
Vaughan  had  acted  a  false,  treacherous  part. 
The  codicil  had  been  entirely  misrepresented  to 
her.  Scores  of  incomprehensible  remarks  of  her 
father's  came  back ;  she  understood  them  now  : 
they  confirmed  her  dread.  Then  she  felt  shocked 
at  her  own  suspicions.  She  told  herself  that  she 
had  harbored  doubts  against  her  husband  until 
her  judgment  was  positively  perverted.  She  con- 
demned too  harshly ;  she  was  too  ready  to  think 
evil  of  him.  She  must  hear  more ;  a  clear  ex- 
planation might  show  her  that  she  was  at  least 
unjust  in  the  present  instance.  Whatever  had 
been  done,  it  could  not  be  so  vile  and  treacherous 
as  the  idea  upon  which  she  had  fastened. 

"Mr. Carstoe,"  she  said,  suddenly. 

He  half  jumped  from  his  chair,  still  staring 
at  her  open-mouthed,  as  he  had  been  doing  for 
several  seconds. 

"Oh,  I  do  beg  your  pardon — I  do!"  moaned 
the  wretched  man. 

"But  there  is  no  need,"  she  replied,  able  still 
to  keep  her  voice  steady.  "Pray  don't  worry 
yourself  any  more.  See,  I  want  you  to  explain 
that  codicil  fully  to  me.  It  is  not  only  that  I 
wish  to  show  you  I  am  not  annoyed,  but  I  would 
like  you  to  go  over  all  the  details." 

Her  composure  brought  him  out  of  his  maze, 
and  after  a  little  he  grew  less  vivid  in  tone  (to 
use  an  artist's  phrase),  and  was  able  to  speak 
without  tumbling  his  words  over  one  another. 

"  I  dare  say  you  remember  the  codicil,"  Eliza- 
beth said. 

"Yes,  indeed — word  for  word  ;  it  was  so  odd, 
you  know,  that  it  made  a  strong  impression  on 
my  mind.  But  of  course  you  saw  the  copy  1 
drew  up  for  Mr. Vaughan?" 

"  Still,  you  shall  go  over  it,  if  you  please,"  was 
all  she  said. 

With  his  legal  memory  for  dry  facts,  stimu- 
lated by  the  romantic  interest  which  the  case 
had  always  possessed  for  him,  Mr.  Carstoe  was 
not  likely  to  be  at  fault  in  recalling  the  codicil. 
He  gave  the  exact  terms  as  if  he  had  been  read- 
ing them  aloud. 

Elizabeth  listened  to  the  end,  then  knew  that 
in  her  effort  to  soften  her  judgment  of  her  hus- 
band she  had  put  the  possibility  of  doubt  beyond 
her  power.  She  was  not  past  the  capability  of 
suffering  where  he  was  concerned  :  she  suffered 
now,  as  only  a  pure,  upright  nature  could  have 
done. 

She  could  not  wish  that  she  had  remained  in 
ignorance  of  the  truth  as  to  this  or  other  matters. 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


113 


Better  to  see  ber  idols  crushed  into  the  dust  than 
bow  before  false  deities.  To  her  mind,  devo- 
tion to  a  false  god  must  be  enervating  and  per- 
nicious, insensibly  leading  the  soul  from  the 
right  path.  How  much  her  stern  judgment 
might  have  been  softened  had  her  heart  cried 
out  in  defense  of  the  poor  clay  image  from  which 
the  shining  gauds  that  wrapped  its  deformity 
had  one  by  one  been  torn,  I  can  not  tell.  But 
when  she  married,  Elizabeth's  feeling  for  her 
husband  had  been  hero-worship.  The  first  per- 
ception of  the  difference  between  the  real  man 
and  her  ideal  came  too  soon  for  her  whole  heart 
to  have  joined  imagination  and  enthusiasm  in 
that  cult. 

She  suffered  keenly  enough,  but  she  was  not 
broken-hearted.  Her  pride  was  lacerated,  her 
faith  stricken,  her  sense  of  womanly  purity  out- 
raged ;  but  the  ache  was  over  the  disappointment, 
the  loneliness,  the  desolation,  for  she  craved  love 
and  sympathy ;  it  was  not  the  death-like  agony 
of  a  heart  which  bursts  under  its  burden.  Sud- 
denly a  new  thought  started  up  in  her  mind :  the 
recollection  of  the  words  she  had  this  morning 
spoken  to  Launce  Cromlin.  He  must  believe 
that  she  had  known  the  contents  of  the  codicil. 
What  could  he  have  thought  of  her  mentioning 
it  ?  She  understood  now  his  annoyance  and 
surprise :  he  had  believed  her  vain,  coquettish, 
unwomanly.  She  felt  her  face  burn  with  shame 
and  mortification ;  but  a  deeper  pang  followed, 
for  presently  she  recollected  the  after-conver- 
sation— the  change  in  his  manner.  He  had 
comprehended  that  she  only  knew  what  the  let- 
ter expressed,  that  the  real  significance  of  the 
codicil  had  never  been  explained.  This  was  al- 
most worse  to  bear  than  to  have  had  him  deem 
her  silly  or  unfeminine ;  for  now  Darrell  Vaugh- 
an's  baseness  was  not  a  secret  confined  to  her- 
self— Cromlin  had  divined  it. 

But  she  heard  Mr.  Carstoe  speaking,  and  hur- 
ried back  from  her  painful  reverie. 

"  Thanks  for  your  patience,"  she  said.  "  You 
are  right,  Mr.  Carstoe ;  your  friend  is  a  very 
generous  man. " 

"Then  I  haven't  vexed  you  and  made  mis- 
chief after  all  ?"  he  cried,  ecstatically.  "I  am 
so  glad  you  like  him — appreciate  him  as  he  de- 
serves. I  was  sure  you  would. " 

This  cool,  practical  man  of  business — the  most 
commonplace  and  trusty  of  mortals  in  that  re- 
spect— was,  I  have  told  yon,  an  old  romance- 
weaver  in  his  way.  He  would  have  kept  a  pro- 
fessional secret  even  in  regard  to  an  enemy  with 
unfaltering  caution  ;  but  he  could  not  resist  the 
impulse  to  share  with  Elizabeth  a  little  secret 
of  another  kind.  He  wanted  by  every  means  to 
soften  her  heart  toward  Launce  ;  besides,  he  was 
so  carried  on  by  the  romance  of  the  thing  that 
he  could  not  repress  a  betrayal  which  could  harm 
no  one,  of  which  Cromlin  would  never  be  made 
aware. 

II 


He  winked  and  blinked  so  portentously  that 
Elizabeth  perceived  he  had  something  else  on 
his  mind ;  but  it  was  something  agreeable,  she 
could  see  by  his  face. 

"  You  look  as  if  you  had  something  pleasant 
you  would  like  to  tell  me,"  she  said. 

"  Yes — I  would  ;  only  it  is  a  bit  of  a  secret." 

"But  you  know  we  women  are  said  to  like 
secrets,"  she  answered,  cheerfully. 
.    "  In  a  way  it  is,"  he  continued ;  "nobody  told 
me — it  was  -only  by  putting  two  and  two  together 
that  I  made  it  out." 

' '  Yes,"  she  answered,  not  interested,  but  wish- 
ing to  be  good-natured  and  set  him  thoroughly 
at  ease  after  his  recent  embarrassment. 

"  You  see — only  think — Cromlin  had  seen  you 
before  your  marriage,  Mrs.Vaughan!"  said  Car- 
stoe, eagerly. 

"Seen  me?"  she  repeated,  in  surprise. 

"Yes;  in  Switzerland  —  at  Montreux  —  the 
very  day  he  got  the  letter  recalling  him  to 
America,"  returned  Carstoe,  delighted  with  his 
idyl.  "You  had  fainted  ;  he  carried  you  up  a 
hill.  You  must  remember — there  was  a  young 
lady  with  you." 

He  waited  for  her  to  answer. 

"I  remember,"  she  said,  rather  coldly.  "I 
did  not  know  it  was  he. " 

"  No,  of  course  not;  that  made  it  so  romantic," 
and  Mr.  Carstoe  fairly  beamed.  "He  had  to 
hurry  off  to  catch  the  train.  Well,  poor  fellow, 
after  all  his  haste  he  was  weeks  and  weeks  too 
late.  Just  fancy ;  in  New  York  he  saw  Vaugh- 
an  pass  in  a  carriage,  but  could  not  make  him 
hear  —  and  Vaughan  was  driving  down  to  the 
steamer." 

She  wished  he  would  stop ;  she  could  not  have 
told  why  the  whole  story  pained  her,  but  it  did. 

"  I  told  you  how  ill  he  was,"  pursued  Carstoe, 
in  his  voice  of  pleased  mystery.  "During  his 
fever  he  used  to  talk  in  a  wandering  way  about 
that  meeting.  He  remembered  the  codicil  too ; 
and  I  know  he  had  dreamed  as  young  men  will 
— it  was  natural." 

He  waited  for  an  assent,  but  none  was  audible. 

"  When  he  was  better,  I  showed  him  a  picture 
of  your  mother  I  had  found  among  his  uncle's 
papers — wonderful  resemblance  to  you — and — 
and— he  kept  it.  Then,  just  as  he  was  getting 
able  to  travel — meaning  to  go  over  to  Europe. 
you  can  guess  what  for — came  the  news." 

Carstoe  paused  to  shake  his  head  and  sigh. 
"Poor  fellow;  I  carried  him  the  paper  myself 
— I  had  no  idea  what  was  in  it.  So  then  he 
changed  his  mind  very  suddenly,  and  stayed  a 
long  while  in  California.  How  hard  he  did  work ! 
And  that's  all,"  concluded  Carstoe,  drawing  a 
long  breath.  "Quite  a  little  romance,  was  it 
not?" 

Elizabeth  had  no  opportunity  to  reply.  The 
door  opened,  and  Vaughan  entered. 

"Ah,Carstoe,"  he  said,"  just  the  man  I  want- 


114 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


ed  to  meet !  Qucenie,  dear,  I  have  scarcely  seen 
you  to-day !  You  look  rather  pale ;  you  stop  in 
the  house  too  much." 

He  walked  up  to  her  chair,  stooped,  laid  one 
hand  caressingly  on  her  shoulder,  and  kissed  her 
forehead.  She  neither  shrunk  nor  spoke,  but  a 
chill  that  was  like  the  coldness  of  death  smote 
her  very  soul :  the  touch  of  his  lips  seemed  an 
absolute  pollution  just  then. 

Mr.  Carstoe  sat  silently  watching  the  two,  and 
again  a  vague  suspicion  crossed  his  mind  to  see 
Elizabeth  so  quiet  and  unmoved  under  her  hand- 
some husband's  evidences  of  affection.  But 
Vaughan  did  not  appear  to  notice  any  thing  pe- 
culiar in  her  manner. 

"Poor  Kibston  died  suddenly  this  morning  of 
apoplexy,"  he  said.  "I  shall  have  to  go  into 
harness  sooner  than  I  expected. " 

Eibston  was  the  member  of  Congress  whom 
Vaughan  would  have  succeeded  the  next  winter 
in  the  natural  course  of  events ;  but  now  he 
would  be  obliged  to  go  on  to  Washington  for 
the  remainder  of  the  spring  session,  which  might 
"drag  its  slow  length  along"  for  several  months 
to  come. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A  LAST  APPEAL. 

IN  this  age  of  railways  and  telegraphs,  elope- 
ments of  any  sort  are  rather  prosaic  matters, 
and  so  Nathalie  La  Tour  discovered  when  she 
began  to  carry  into  execution  her  plan  for  es- 
caping what  she  considered  her  husband's  in- 
supportable tyranny.  But  at  least  there  was  the 
secrecy  and  excitement  to  give  a  glow  of  ro- 
mance, and  Susanne  proved  an  invaluable  coad- 
jutor, enjoying  the  idea  of  the  flight  as  much  as 
if  she  had  been  a  youthful  heroine  going  off  to 
join  her  Romeo. 

The  first  thing  was  to  gain  time,  so  Nathalie 
took  to  her  bed,  because  as  Susanne  in  her  wis- 
dom observed — 

"Arguments  with  men  are  just  breath  wasted ; 
they  can  carry  one  off  whether  one  scolds  or 
cries ;  but  they  can't  take  one,  pillow,  night- 
gown, and  all,  and  that  is  where  we  have  them, 
the  saints  be  praised." 

Nathalie  offered  no  further  opposition  to  her 
husband's  will.  She  was  sullen  and  taciturn, 
acting  so  well  her  r6le  of  injured  wife  that  a 
more  acute  person  than  Monsieur  La  Tour  would 
have  been  deceived.  The  journey  to  Languedoc 
was  deferred  for  a  week.  Suffering  as  he  was 
in  body  and  mind,  the  old  man  pitied  Nathalie 
.sincerely,  and  strove  by  gentleness  and  consid- 
eration to  soften  somewhat  the  verdict  he  had 
pronounced.  He  shut  himself  up  in  the  house; 
he  could  not  bear  to  meet  his  neighbors'  eyes — 
to  feel  that  they  were  commiserating  him;  worse 


still,  were  condemning  Nathalie.  He  was  stung 
to  the  soul  by  this  disgrace  which  had  struck 
the  life  he  had  kept  always  upright  and  pure ; 
but,  terrible  as  this  was,  he  thought  more  of 
Nathalie  and  her  future  than  of  any  thing  else. 
The  man's  ideas  ran  in  a  narrow  channel,  re- 
stricted by  the  prejudices  of  long  years ;  but  he 
thought  vigorously  enough,  and  his  perception 
of  justice  and  right  was  more  independent  of  his 
prejudices  than  is  that  of  many  men  who  pride 
themselves  on  their  broad  views  and  theories  in 
regard  to  social  freedom. 

He  trusted  that  time  and  proper  influences 
might  work  a  great  change  in  Nathalie — teach 
her  the  falsity  and  wickedness  of  the  doctrines 
she  had  espoused.  His  ideas  of  the  ways  by 
which  this  teaching  was  to  be  effected  were  ut- 
terly erroneous,  but  he  walked  by  such  light  as 
he  had.  His  sister  was  a  woman  upright  and 
gentle,  whose  whole  life  was  a  psalm  of  good- 
ness. He  really  believed  that  her  example  must 
have  its  effect  on  Nathalie, quite  forgetting  that  to 
his  wife's  mind  psalms  had  no  meaning.  Then 
he  had  great  faith  in  the  advice  of  a  certain  Cure 
who  resided  near  his  sister ;  the  books  which  had 
helped  to  disorganize  Nathalie's  judgment  were 
to  be  kept  out  of  reach,  a  course  of  reasonable 
literature  substituted  in  their  stead. 

For  himself,  nothing  could  be  done.  Nathalie 
did  not  love  him.  He  could  no  longer  court 
deception  here.  For  months  trust  in  her  affec- 
tion had  been  slowly  dying  out  of  his  heart  as 
the  sun  fades  from  a  landscape,  leaving  it  each 
hour  colder  and  more  dreary ;  now  the  last  ray 
was  gone. 

While  he  meditated  over  the  means  by  which 
Nathalie  might  best  be  aided,  and  prayed  for 
strength  to  bear  the  burden  that  seemed  heavier 
than  his  age-weakened  shoulders  could  support, 
the  wife  was  arranging  her  flight.  She  had  a 
considerable  sum  of  money  by  her ;  the  little  in- 
come she  inherited  from  her  mother  was  received 
from  funds  in  England — her  husband  could  not 
touch  that ;  and  her  books  had  brought  in 
enough ;  so  that  her  fancy  built  glowing  hopes 
for  the  future. 

She  wrote  to  a  friend  in  Paris — a  Uterary  wom- 
an, whose  acquaintance  she  had  made  during  the 
memorable  spring  spent  in  the.enchanted  city — 
one  of  the  band  of  modem  philosophers  whose 
practice  went  beyond  Nathalie's  most  daring 
theories.  Even  in  her  first  excitement  it  was 
hard  for  Nathalie  to  give  up  Paris,  and  there 
would  have  been  her  rightful  sphere  ;  life  any 
where  out  of  its  charmed  influences  must  be  dull 
in  comparison.  But  there  could  be  no  safety 
for  her  in  France ;  expatriation  was  the  price 
she  must  pay  for  liberty. 

Her  letter  received  a  speedy  answer ;  Susanne 
managed  its  reception  with  the  art  of  a  soubrette 
in  an  old  comedy.  The  philosopheress  was  ready 
to  assist  her  young  friend  by  every  means  in  her 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


115 


power.  She  had  at  once  seen  a  publisher  in  re- 
gard to  Nathalie's  new  book.  Best  of  all,  she 
and  a  party  of  friends  were  just  setting  off  to 
spend  the  autumn  and  winter  in  Italy.  Nathalie 
must  join  them ;  break  the*  yoke  under  which 
her  soul  had  so  long  groaned ;  seek  freedom 
and  companionship  of  natures  able  to  compre- 
hend her  exalted  needs — natures  eager  for  the 
regeneration  of  mankind  and  the  glorious  light 
of  liberty,  undimmed  by  the  blight  of  old  preju- 
dices and  worn-out  religious  creeds. 

These  glowingly  expressed  theories  were  all 
reul  and  beautiful  to  Nathalie — a  gospel  to  which 
she  clung  as  tenaciously  as  a  blind  man  to  some 
vain  support  which  he  has  convinced  himself  is 
his  one  refuge.  She  would  defer  her  journey  to 
America  for  a  time.  In  Italy  she  should  have 
leisure  to  translate  her  novel  into  English,  and 
make  arrangements  for  its  publication  in  London 
and  New  York.  Her  name  would  go  far  and 
wide ;  she  should  have  the  world  at  her  feet. 

But  Susanne  had  no  intention  of  leaving  her 
own  or  her  mistress's  wardrobe  behind,  and  she 
contrived,  by  the  assistance  of  a  friend  in  the  vil- 
lage, to  get  the  principal  part  out  of  the  house, 
and  sent  on  the  road  to  Italy,. 

Monsieur  La  Tour  was  so  completely  exhaust- 
ed that  for  a  few  days  he  could  only  lie  on  his 
bed  in  a  darkened  room,  wondering  what  error 
in  his  life  had  rendered  necessary  the  terrible 
punishment  which  now  befell  him.  In  the  case 
of  another,  he  could  have  believed  it  only  a  trial 
sent  for  the  further  purification  of  the  soul,  but 
he  was  too  humble  to  accept  so  hopeful  a  view  in 
his  own  case. 

One  morning  he  awoke  to  know  that  a  fresh 
blow  had  fallen — Nathalie  was  gone. 

At  Genoa  she  found  her  friends  awaiting  her, 
and  together  they  journeyed  down  to  Naples. 
Nathalie's  book  was  published  under  her  own 
name ;  the  translation  she  made  would  appear 
in  England  and  America  in  the  spring.  She 
fancied  herself  on  the  road  to  fame  and  fortune, 
and  for  a  short  time  believed  that  happiness  was 
at  last  reached. 

But  that  winter  was  not  all  sunshine.  The 
female  philosopher  and  her  band  were  disap- 
pointed in  Nathalie ;  she  was  good  at  theory, 
but  beyond  this  she  did  not  go.  The  women 
grew  venomous  because  she  took  no  lover,  the 
men  spiteful.  Still  there  was  the  eclat  of  enroll- 
ing this  young,  lovely,  and,  in  certain  ways,  gift- 
ed creature  among  their  band,  and  the  consola- 
tion of  having  other  people  believe  that  her  daily 
life  was  in  keeping  with  the  laxity  of  mbrals  in 
her  books. 

On  the  whole,  Nathalie  was  glad  when  spring 
took  the  entire  set  back  to  France.  She  had 
fears  of  being  made  a  prisoner  if  she  set  foot  on 
Gallic  soil,  so  the  only  course  was  to  reach  Os- 
tend  by  Switzerland  and  Germany.  The  journey 
was  a  hard  one,  and  Susanne  very  troublesome 


whenever  she  became  fatigued.  Nathalie  began 
to  think  that  even  the  exalted  career  of  a  new- 
light  teacher  was  not  free  from  small  cares  and. 
vexations,  and  it  had  been  just  the  trifles  in  her 
former  life  which  had  seemed  so  unendurable. 

London  appeared  a  howling  wilderness  to  her 
eyes,  and  she  hated  it  with  a  feverish  energy, 
which  only  French  blood  can  feel  in  its  full  ex- 
tent toward  the  damp  shores  of  Albion.  A  few 
hangers-on  of  newspapers  came  about  her,  a  few 
theatrical  people ;  but  there  was  nothing  brilliant 
— no  ovation  :  not  even  women  to  envy  her  the 
admiration  of  the  stiff  Englishmen  she  detested. 
Nathalie  felt  existence  to  be  as  bitter  as  ever  she 
had  done  in  the  dreary  house  in  the  French  pro- 
vincial town. 

She  began  to  yearn  for  America.  Since  Paris 
was  a  heaven  closed  to  her,  New  York  looked 
the  next  brightest  spot,  and  she  waited  impa- 
tiently for  certain  money  matters  to  be  arranged 
so  that  she  might  sail. 

It  was  late  in  June  before  any  fresh  excite- 
ment came  to  her,  and  as  Nathalie  only  count- 
ed life  by  sensations,  the  time  seemed  very  long. 
But  one  morning  a  packet  of  newspapers  was 
brought  in.  They  were  several  numbers  of  a 
semi-monthly  journal  that  had  been  started  in 
New  York,  called  the  Bohemian,  avowedly  the 
representative  of  a  little  set  in  that  city  who  be- 
lieved in  their  own  importance,  and  had  not  the 
slightest  doubt  they  were  destined  to  revolution- 
ize the  world.  Nathalie  found  long  reviews  cf 
her  books — numerous  personal  notices — descrip- 
tions of  her  beauty — bits  of  romantic  incident 
supposed  to  have  been  actual  experiences  in  her 
girlhood — a  poem  or  so  which  chanted  her  praises 
— and  eager  assertions  that  America  was  the  field 
for  her  genius. 

She  laid  down  the  papers  actually  convinced 
that  it  was  the  voice  of  the  whole  vast  continent 
which  she  had  heard.  At  last  fame  had  come ! 
Yes,  there  was  her  field  of  operations — her  Ely- 
sium !  She  was  a  recognized  priestess  at  length, 
and  innumerable  worshipers  were  eagerly  calling 
her  to  appear  and  occupy  the  shrine  they  had 
erected  in  her  honor.  There  were  letters  too — 
letters  from  men  and  women  who  belonged  to  the 
newly  established  coterie  of  Bohemians.  There 
were  epistles  from  youths  in  poetry  and  madder 
prose,  declaring  the  ardent  love  with  which  she 
had  inspired  them.  Their  souls  called  her  soul 
across  the  vasty  deep,  and  so  on ;  the  plain  En- 
glish for  which  would  have  been  that,  as  the 
worshipers  possessed  no  money  for  the  voyage, 
she  must  float  withirt  their  reach  if  she  desired 
to  test  their  devotion. 

In  addition  to  these  eloquent  communications, 
she  received  a  letter  from  the  leading  proprietor 
of  the  Bohemian.  He  proposed  that  she  should 
come  to  America,  buy  a  share  in  the  newspaper, 
and  assist  in  conducting  it.  Between  her  books 
and  her  editorial  influence  she  would  be  able  to 


116 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


accomplish  the  grandest  work  that  the  age  could 
offer  any  woman. 

The  newspaper  itself  reiterated  this  last  asser- 
tion, declaring  that  she  was  the  true  apostle  for 
whom  the  world  had  been  waiting — her  genius 
the  immaterial  divinity  for  which  true  souls  had 
sighed  so  long ! 

In  truth,  he  was  a  sufficiently  shrewd  man  this 
chief  owner  of  the  lever  that  was  to  move  the 
universe.  The  journal  could  not  live  longer 
without  assistance,  and  Nathalie's  moneyed  suc- 
cess had  been  as  much  overrated  as  such  suc- 
cesses usually  are.  This  philosopher,  with  a 
practical  vein  under  his  theories,  and  a  keen  eye 
to  interest  beneath  his  floating  locks  and  dreamy 
brow,  saw  clearly  all  the  advantages  of  electing 
this  handsome  woman  (who  could  come  with  a 
well-filled  purse  in  her  pretty  fingers)  the  anoint- 
ed Queen  of  the  Bohemians.  That  was  the  title 
the  newspaper  offered  her  :  it  sounded  very  sweet 
in  Nathalie's  ears  as  she  repeated  it  over  and 
over. 

She  must  answer  the  letters  at  once!  Her 
brain  was  so  dizzy  and  her  hand  so  tremulous 
that  she  could  scarcely  write.  This  was  the  hap- 
piest hour  of  her  life— she  had  found  her  throne 
and  crown ! 

The  first  thing  was  to  secure  the  newspaper. 
The  long-headed  philosopher  had  spoken  of  the 
necessity  for  a  speedy  acceptance  if  she  decided 
to  join  in  the  great  work.  There  was  an  Amer- 
ican woman,  with  talent,  money,  and  influence, 
eager  to  be  chosen  as  sovereign,  and  she  had  a 
clique  to  support  her  claims.  But  to  him,  the 
long-haired  philosopher,  and  to  all  the  furthest- 
sighted  of  the  band,  there  could  be  no  doubt — 
they  wanted  Nathalie.  Still  (here  he  showed 
talent  which  his  printed  writing&.seldom  exhib- 
ited) a  certain  portion  of  the^pntract  money 
must  be  forthcoming  without  4^ay,  in  order  to 
crush  the  hopes  of  the  New  York  literary  lady 
and  her  faction.  He  explained  clearly  how  the 
affair  could  be  arranged  through  a  publishing 
house  in  London. 

But  eager  as  she  was,  Nathalie's  usual  lack  of 
continuity  of  thought  caused  a  new  idea  to  strike 
her  in  the  midst  of  her  reply.  She  must  write 
to  the  poetess  who  had  honored  her  with  an  epis- 
tle. What  she  considered  an  apt  quotation  from 
Mrs.  Browning  suggested  itself,  so  she  preluded 
her  rhodomontade  with — 

"How  dreary  'tis  for  women  to  sit  still 
On  winter  nights  by  solitary  fires', 
And  hear  the  nations  praising  them  afar." 

Then  she  paused  to  read  tfce  newspaper  tributes 
Hgain,  wishing  for  an  auditor  to  share  her  tri- 
umph. Susanne  would  be  better  than  nobody ! 
At  least  Susanne  would  express  unqualified  de- 
light, even  if  she  did  show  it  by  standing  on  one 
foot  and  uttering  incoherent  phrases. 

But  when  she  rang  she  found  that  Susanne 
had  gone  out ;  the  lodging-house  sen-ant  said  a 


gentleman  had  just  called.  Nathalie  supposed 
it  must  be  some  literary  acquaintance — perhaps 
a  person  connected  with  the  press,  who  could  get 
mention  into  London  journals  of  this  success 
which  her  genius  had  achieved.  Indeed,  it  might 
ba  a  friend  who  had  already  heard  of  her  tri- 
umph, and  had  come  to  offer  congratulations. 
She  bade  the  woman  show  the  guest  up  at  once. 

The  door  opened  again ;  Nathalie  looked  down 
the  dimness  of  the  dull,  gray  room  and  saw  her 
husband  standing  there,  like  a  ghost  among  the 
shadows. 

She  uttered  a  cry  of  fear.  Her  first  impulse 
was  to  flee.  He  had  found  her ;  she  might  be 
dragged  back  to  the  purgatory  of  her  old  exist- 
ence just  in  this  crowning  moment  of  success. 

"Nathalie,"  he  called,  in  a  slow,  tremulous 
voice ;  "  do  not  be  frightened,  Nathalie." 

"I'll  not  go  back !"  she  cried.  "I'll  kill  my- 
self first !  Never,  never ;  don't  come  near  me  ; 
don't  try  to  touch  me !" 

He  had  advanced  half-  way  up  the  room,  but 
he  stopped  at  the  sound  of  the  wild  words  and 
the  sight  of  her  frightened  face. 

"I  have  no  power  over  you,"  he  said ;  "  think 
a  moment,  and  you  will  remember  that. " 

She  sat  down  in  a  chair,  trembling  still  from 
the  effects  of  her  terror,  but  able  to  recollect  that 
out  of  France  he  had  no  authority  whatever. 
Then  a  sudden  anger  took  the  place  of  her  fright ; 
but  as  she  turned  toward  him  with  insolent  words 
on  her  lips,  they  died  unuttered. 

Somehow,  to  look  into  his  face  was  like  looking 
into  the  possibility  of  a  life  which  made  her  hopes 
and  dreams  show  shrunken  and  deformed.  The 
idea  was  too  vague  for  her  to  seize  it — indeed, 
her  vanity  and  her  warped  mind  would  have 
rendered  this  impossible ;  but  the  thrill  shook 
her — only  long  enough  to  check  that  cruel  speech 
— then  was  gone. 

He  stood  there  with  his  head  a  little  bowed, 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  her.  Oh,  the  piteous  hope- 
lessness of  that  glance  !  Every  thing  in  his  at- 
titude and  appearance  aided  the  inner  voice 
which  had  tried  to  make  itself  audible  to  her 
blinded  soul — the  vision  which  had  sought  to 
lighten  the  darkness  where  she  groped  ;  but  she 
was  deaf  and  blind  alike  to  all. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  want ;  I  can't  see 
why  you  should  come !"  she  exclaimed,  fret- 
fully. 

Had  she  ever  contemplated  this  meeting,  she 
would  have  fancied  herself  equal  to  the  emer- 
gency ;  proud,  haughty,  like  a  priestess  con- 
fronting a  heretic  who  had  come  to  attack  her 
altar.  But  she  was  taken  by  surprise,  and  could 
only  wail  out  a  peevish  remonstrance. 

"I  think  you  shoidd  know,  Nathalie,"  he  an- 
swered gently.  "  Whenever  I  could  learn  where 
you  were  I  have  written." 

"I  never  read  one  of  your  letters,"  she  broke 
in  ;  and  again  was  conscious  that  she  had  not 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


117 


assumed  the  tone  fitting  her  dignity  as  the  ac- 
knowledged apostle  of  a  new  faith,  and  paused. 

"  I  wish  you  had  done  so,"  he  continued.  "I 
nm  not  eloquent,  but  you  might  have  seen  my 
heart,  perhaps,  and  felt  that  at  least  I  wanted  to 
help  you." 

"Help  me — you  !"  she  cried,  scornfully. 

She  saw  him  tremble  a  little. 

"May  I  sit  down?"  he  asked.  "I  am  get- 
ting old,  you  know,  and  the  long  journey  has 
tired  me." 

She  ran  and  placed  a  chair  for  him ;  she  could 
feel  sorry  to  see  how  pale  and  worn  he  looked, 
though  her  pity  roused  no  pang  of  remorse.  Her 
intense  egotism  precluded  the  possibility  -of  her 
seeing  that  she  had  erred.  All  faults  were  on 
his  side.  She  was  a  victim,  not  so  much  from 
his  deliberate  causing  as  from  the  tyranny  of 
ancient  creeds  and  laws — but  she  was  a  victim. 

"I  wish  you  had  not  come;  it  would  have 
been  so  much  better  not!"  she  heard  herself 
saying  in  the  same  fretful  tone,  wondering  at 
the  same  time  why  she  felt  childish  and  weak, 
and  could  get  at  none  of  the  grand  phrases  with 
which  she  would  have  expected  to  overwhelm 
him. 

As  he  seated  himself,  he  took  her  hand — gen- 
tly, but  so  firmly  that  she  could  not  release  it, 
and,  looking  in  her  face  again  with  his  sorrow- 
ful eyes,  said — "  Nathalie,  do  you  ever  pray?" 

Straightway  there  rose  before  her  the  mem- 
ory of  her  mother's  last  hours,  that  awful  death- 
bed, the  dying  woman's  agony  of  supplication 
and  fear,  her  calls  upon  Virgin  and  saints — and 
Nathalie  shuddered. 

He  let  her  hand  go  ;  she  got  to  a  seat  near, 
and  sank  into  it.  She  turned  her  gaze  from  his 
face — it  was  an  effort  to  do  so — and  fixed  it  on 
the  letters  and  newspapers.  Her  courage  came 
back  ;  her  spirit  rose  indignantly  at  this  tempo- 
rary assertion  of  power  by  the  old  superstitions 
and  mummeries  in  which  she  had  no  faith. 

"  To  live  for  the  beautiful  and  true  is  prayer," 
she  cried  ;  "to  keep  the  soul  free  from  supersti- 
tions ;  to  reach  forward  to  the  ideal,  to  the  liv- 
ing centre  of  magnetic  influence.  But  you  can 
not  understand  ;  why  do  I  speak  ?" 

"  Let  us,  then,  talk  of  things  in  which  we  can 
understand  one  another,"  he  answered.. 

Nathalie  shrugged  her  shoulders.  She  wanted 
to  make  a  comparison  about  some  dull,  slow, 
creeping  thing  presuming  to  imagine  it  could 
comprehend  a  bird  soaring  and  singing  above  its 
head,  but  she  was  still  sufficiently  softened  by 
the  wave  of  emotion  which  had  touched  her  to 
refrain. 

"I  made  the  journey  on  purpose  to  see  you, 
Nathalie,"  he  continued.  "  I  should  have  gone 
to  you  in  Italy  when  I  heard  you  were  there, 
but  I  was  very — I  was  not  just  fit  to  travel." 

She  knew  that  he  had  been  prevented  by  severe 
illness  ;  but  somehow  to  feel  this  irritated  her, 


as  did  his  checking  himself  in  the  mention  of  it 
through  consideration  for  her. 

"  I  wish  you  had  left  every  thing  as  it  was," 
she  said.  "  I  can  not  think  why  you  came  !  I 
shall  never  go  back  ;  you  ought  to  have  known 
that.  Go  back  ?  As  well  ask  a  skylark  not  to 
fly  when  it  has  learned  to  use  its  wings.  There, 
it  is  all  said  now  ;  do  not  let  us  talk  of  it !  I 
have  no  wish  to  say  harsh  things,  but  I  will  not 
be  reproached  or  lectured  ;  I  am  free." 

She  felt  herself  very  magnanimous  to  speak 
with  such  mildness. 

"Will  you  let  me  tell  you  why  I  came — ex- 
actly what  thoughts  were  in  my  mind  ?"  he  ask- 
ed, gently.  • 

"Oh,  tell  me,  then, "she  replied,  with  a  sort 
of  fretful  resignation. 

"  All  those  weeks  when  I  was  prevented  seek- 
ing you  I  had  time  to  think,"  he  continued  in 
the  same  subdued,  patient  tone.  "  You  are  very 
young,  Nathalie.  Many  things  will  look  so  dif- 
ferent to  you  when  you  reach  my  age." 

Nathalie  shivered,  only  at  the  idea  of  growing 
old.  The  thought  of  age  was  hateful  to  her. 
It  was  dreadful  to  look  at  him  and  remember 
that  some  time  she  must  be  thus  —  bowed, 
wrinkled,  gray-haired.  She  called  it  cruelty  on 
his  part  to  force  such  reflections  upon  her  mind. 
"The  idea  of  coming  all  the  way  from  France  to 
talk  of  that !"  she  said,  angrily. 

"  Only  because  it  has  to  do  with  what  I  want 
to  say.  Don't  be  impatient,  Nathalie !  I  am. 
slow ;  I  do  not  explain  myself  well.  Let  me 
try  to  tell  what  I  mean  in  a  few  words." 

He  was  about  to  make  the  offer  against  which 
his  priest  had  warned  him  as  dangerous  for  his 
own  soul — what  the  Cure  called  condoning  sin 
and  crime ;  the  offer  which  his  sister  had  im- 
plored him  to  relinquish,  because  if  he  succeeded 
in  the  errand  he  Vould  only  bring  new  and  hard- 
er suffering  upon  the  last  years  of  his  earthly  life. 
But  plain  and  commonplace  as  he  was,  narrowed 
as  his  mind  had  become  from  living  in  the  little 
round  which  education  and  example  had  taught 
him  to  consider  the  only  safe  one,  Monsieur  La 
Tour  could  rise  above  these  restraints,  because 
his  love  for  Nathalie  was  strong  enough  to  thrust 
self  aside.  He  paused,  not  because  the  oppor- 
tunity to  plead  his  wishes  brought  up  any  selfish 
consideration,  only  to  try  for  words  which  should 
be  most  likely  to  influence  her. 

"Well?"  cried  Nathalie,  sharply.  She  had 
glanced  back  at  the  newspapers  and  letters. 
She  longed  to  return  to  her  pleasant  task.  It 
was  too  bad  to  have  her  time  wasted ;  to  be 
dragged  down  to  earth  by  such  antiquated  talk 
when  she  was  eager  to  soar  off  into  the  realms 
of  transcendentalism  and  latter-day  philosophy. 

"If  you  would  be  content  to  stay  with  me — 
to  let  me  be  like  a  father  to  you.  Listen,  Natha- 
lie " — for  she  had  made  an  impatient  movement 
to  rise — "I  do  not  mean  you  to  go  back  to  the 


113 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


old  home — we  would  live  where  you  chose.  I 
would  only  ask  you  to  wait  awhile — to  study — 
to  think  before  you  publish  any  more  books— to 
examine  well  the  doctrines  which  seem  so  beau- 
tiful and  broad  to  you — before  you  help  further 
to  promulgate  them — " 

''Stop  now  ?"  she  broke  in.  "  Why,  do  you 
know  what  position  I  have  already  won  for  my- 
self—my books  translated— my  name  famous  ? 
Read  these!" 

She  ran  to  the  table,  seized  the  newspapers, 
and  brought  them  to  him. 

"I  don't  need  to  look  at  them,"  he  said. 
"  Oh,  child,  child,  can  you  not  understand ! 
This  is  not  fame." 

She  smiled  at  him  with  a  grand  compassion ; 
she  could  not  even  be  angry.  He  was  utterly 
blind,  earthly,  soulless.  Outside  the  crime  of 
having  married  her,  he  was  a  good  enough  plain 
creature.  She  had  shaken  off  her  bonds — she 
was  free!  She  could  afford  to  look  leniently 
down  on  him  from  the  height  to  which  she  had 
risen. 

"Yon  ask  impossibilities,  "she  said.  "I  could 
not  wait  if  I  would !  Destiny  has  pushed  me 
on — my  work  lies  before  me — I  must  do  it." 

"God  have  mercy  on  your  soul!"  he  mur- 
mured. 

"Bigot!"  retorted  she,  and  went  back  to 
place  her  precious  papers  upon  the  table.  She 
stood  restingonehanduponit,  andglanced  toward 
him.  Nathalie  could  undergo  numerous  emotions 
and  changes  in  an  instant.  She  felt  sorry  for 
him,  because  he  must  be  deprived  of  her  society 
— that  seemed,  indeed,  a  terrible  punishment  for 
his  error  in  having  made  her  his  wife.  She  must 
have  married  somebody  and  been  wretched — it 
was  her  destiny — else  how  could  she  have  suc- 
cessfully preached  against  the  miseries  of  wed- 
lock ?  She  recollected  a  verse  of  English  poetry 
about  suffering  and  song  and  crushed  grapes  and 
wine,  but  it  was  not  worth  while  to  quote  it  to 
Monsieur,  whose  comprehension  of  the  language 
was  limited  to  the  utterance  of  a  few  phrases 
whereby  man,  the  animal,  makes  known  the 
needs  of  his  stomach. 

And  Monsieur  looked  at  her  and  realized  how 
helpless  he  was  to  fulfill  the  mission  which  had 
brought  him,  and  with  his  usual  humility  blamed 
himself.  If  he  could  only  speak  as  he  ought — 
if  he  could  only  find  eloquent  words  which  should 
be  like  a  sudden  light  whereby  she  might  see  the 
dangerous  precipice  on  whose  edge  she  stood ! 
His  own  pain  he  could  bear— he  was  old  and  ugly 
and  dull — it  did  not  matter !  But  this  creature, 
so  full  of  youth  and  loveliness,  it  was  awful  to 
think  of  the  future  she  must  bring  upon  herself, 
the  harm  she  might  do  others. 

Most  men  ia  his  position,  cheated  of  their  love 
— horrified  by  the  distasteful  notoriety  brought 
on  their  name — would  have  had  their  opinions 


color  to  Nathalie's  conduct,  believing  that  in 
theory  and  practice  she  was  alike  depraved.  But 
this  man,  narrow  as  many  of  his  ideas  were,  did 
not  do  this  ;  he  was  capable  of  the  heroism  of 
putting  himself  out  of  the  question ;  and  when  a 
human  being  can  accomplish  this,  his  judgment 
of  a  fellow-creature  is  a  very  different  matter. 

"  If  I  could  say  what  I  ought !"  he  exclaimed, 
suddenly. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  impatience. 
Why  would  he  not  go,  and  let  her  alone  ?  Her 
mind  was  full  of  herself  again  ;  these  letters  to 
answer,  this  brilliant  offer  to  accept,  the  first 
taste  of  fame  to  indulge,  and  here  he  was  drag- 
ging her  down  to  commonplace  discussions,  just 
as  if  she  were  still  a  slave,  sitting  in  the  old 
prison  of  a  house  iu  France,  and  liberty  only  a 
dream. 

"  AVe  can  neither  speak  a  language  the  other 
is  able  to  comprehend,"  she  said,  magnificently. 
"I  have  no  desire  to  say  unkind  things,  but  I 
wish  you  would  go  away,  Monsieur." 

He  rose. 

"  Yes,"  he  said, "  I  weary  you — I  have  always 
wearied  you.  Wherever  I  have  been  wrong, 
Nathalie,  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"Never  mind,"  she  answered;  "I  do  not 
blame  you  now.  In  the  daily  irritation  and 
misery  of  my  life,  when  the  chain  that  bound 
me  galled  my  soul  always,  I  was  excitable  and 
impatient ;  but  that  is  all  over." 

"  Oh,  Nathalie  !"  he  cried  ;  "  think  —  only 
think  !  Remember  what  the  world  will  say  and 
believe  of  you  ;  what  it  says  of  your  associates, 
of  those  women  who — " 

"Haven't  I  told  you  that  it  does  not  matter  ?'' 
she  broke  in.  "We  expect  persecution  and 
misapprehension  from  the  common  herd — all 
reformers  must.  Why  that  very  faith  to  which 
you  cling — worn  out  as  it  is — did  not  its  first 
proselytes  struggle  even  to  martyrdom  in  its  sup- 
port ?  Do  you  think  I  am  less  brave  ?" 

This  unconscious  blasphemy  was  terrible  to 
the  poor  old  man.  He  held"  up  his  hand,  saying 
sadly — 

"  Not  that,  Nathalie !  Say  any  thing  else  you 
will,  but  let  my  religion  alone." 

He  saw  now  that  the  case  was  hopeless  ;  he 
could  not  move  her  in  any  way.  His  sister  had 
been  right ;  this  visit  had  no  effect  but  to  bring 
him  a  new  pang — a  keener  suffering ;  he  had  bet- 
ter go.  It  was  a  horrible  alternative,  but  he  had 
no  choice.  His  c^jvn  misery,  the  utter  wreck 
she  had  made  of  his  closing  years,  he  could  have 
borne,  but  his  agony  went  beyond  personal  feel- 
ings. He  had  struggled  for  Nathalie's  soul  against 
the  tempter  and  been  worsted.  To  him  it  was 
not  only  that  in  her  madness  she  risked  honor  and 
reputation  here,  but  he  believed  in  eternal  happi- 
ness or  eternal  punishment !  lie  dared  not 
think ;  he  could  only  shut  his  eyes  and  pray  to 


too  warped  by  passion  not  to  give  the  harshest  |  God  to  send  a  ray  of  light  before  it  was  too  late. 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


119 


"  If  you  should  ever  want  me,  Nathalie,"  he 
said  at  last,  "you  will  know  where  to  find  me. 
You  will  come  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  replied,  indifferently.  "I  do 
not  dislike  you.  Now  that  we  are  free  from  one 
another  I  can  judge  you  more  leniently." 

"  In  God's  sight  we  can  never  be  free  from 
one  another, "  he  said,  solemnly. 

"  Rank  nonsense  !"  exclaimed  Nathalie.  "If 
you  would  only  read  my  last  book.  There  is  no 
answer  to  my  arguments  if  you  go  by  the  light 
of  reason;  but  you  would  not !  You  only  see  by 
what  you  call  faith,  and  there  is  nothing  that  so 
enfeebles  the  judgment !  To  doubt  is  the  right, 
the  loftiest  attribute  of  the  mind  !" 

He  would  go.  To  linger  only  increased  his 
distress  for  her — always  for  her. 

"One  thing  more,"  he  said.  "I  have  ar- 
ranged with  a  banker  here  to  pay  you  an  annual 
sum  in  addition  to  your  income ;  I  have  made 
it  as  large  as  my  duty  to  others  would  permit." 

"  Oh,  very  well.  One  must  think  of  money 
as  one  must  of  other  coarse  needs  of  the  body," 
she  replied,  grandly. 

She  stood  waiting  for  him  to  go  ;  she  did  not 
want  to  be  softened  by  further  appeals. 

"And  is  this  farewell  ?"  he  asked,  after  a  brief 
silence. 

"Our  paths  separate  unavoidably,"  she  said. 
"I  have  a  great  work  before  me  ;  I  can  not  be 
trammeled  in  any  way." 

"  Oh,  Nathalie,  Nathalie  !"  he  cried,  in  a  voice 
sharp  with  agony.  "Come  to  me,  child;  come ! 
For  your  soul's  sake — by  your  mother's  memory 
— by  that  death-bed,  I  implore  you  to  come  !" 

She  shivered  and  grew  frightened  anew,  but 
this  weakness  only  angered  her. 

"Let  me  alone!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  am 
not  a  child  to  be  scared  by  such  folly ;  let  me 
alone  !  I  will  not  go  back  ;  I  will  not !  Say 
another  word  and  I  shall  hate  you  as  bad  as 
ever  !  I'll  do  any  thing,  no  matter  what,  just  to 
make  it  impossible  for  you  to  come  any  more 
with  such  silly  offers." 

,  "  You  are  right,"  he  answered ;  "  it  is  useless 
to  trouble  you.  I  am  going  now,  Nathalie ;  I 
am  going." 

Again  he  gave  her  a  long,  yearning  look  ;  he 
loved  her  so  !  He  had  gone  through  his  youth, 
past  middle  age,  and  love  had  never  come  to 
him  till  he  met  this  wayward  girl ;  and  now  she 
had  broken  his  heart  and  was  endangering  her 
own  soul. 

His  gaze  troubled  her  ;  she  wanted  him  gone. 
It  was  not  that  she  was  too  hard-hearted  to  pity 
his  suffering,  but  she  could  not  understand  it. 
He  was  old — love  could  have  no  meaning  to  him ; 
and  to  expect  to  fetter  her  genius  and  youth 
down  to  his  petty  life  was  an  insanity  fairly  lu- 
dicrous. 

"Farewell,  Nathalie,"  he  said  ;   "  farewell." 

He  held  her  hands  for  an  instant ;  she  heard 


his  lips  murmur  a  broken  prayer ;  then  he  went 
slowly  out  of  the  room,  looking  wistfully  back  to 
the  last,  as  if  there  still  lingered  a  hope  that  she 
might  relent,  might  bid  him  return  ;  then  the 
door  closed. 

Nathalie  cried  a  little  from  nervous  excitement, 
but  the  sight  of  the  papers  and  letters  soon  re- 
stored her  composure,  and  she  forgot  him  in  her 
engrossing  occupation. 

After  a  while  Susanne  entered  in  a  state  of 
intense  excitement ;  she  had  seen  Monsieur  in 
the  street,  had  hurried  round  a  corner  to  escape, 
and  flew  home  to  warn  her  mistress. 

"But  he  has  been  here,"  said  Nathalie. 
"Bah !  Don't  weary  me  with  such  trifles,  Su- 
sanne !  Listen  to  this  ;  let  me  translate  these 
reviews  and  letters.  Oh,  Susanne,  I  am  famous 
at  last  I" 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

COME   TO   LIGHT. 

AUTUMN  was  come  again. 

In  the  spring  Elizabeth  had  gone  to  Wash- 
ington with  her  husband,  when  he  took  his  sent 
in  Congress.  Some  measure,  momentous  for  the 
time,  whatever  might  be  its  effect  on  the  future 
about  which  Conscript  Fathers  talked  so  elo- 
quently, was  occupying*  the  attention  of  both 
Houses.  Vaughan's  first  speech  was  in  regard 
to  this  bill,  and  proved  a  great  success. 

Try  to  shut  her  eyes  as  she  might,  Elizabeth 
could  not  help  knowing  that  Vaughan  fought 
against  his  convictions  in  the  interest  of  his  par- 
ty ;  but  she  presumed  to  pass  no  judgment.  She 
saw  other  men,  called  good  and  great,  doing  this 
daily.  If  such  action  Avas  a  necessity  of  politics, 
she  could  only  feel  that  another  illusion  had  van- 
ished— another  barrier  been  set  up  between  her 
and  any  possibility  of  sympathy  with  her  hus- 
band's career. 

Vaughan  worked  hard,  and  Elizabeth  was 
aware  that  his  recourse  to  stimulants  had  begun 
anew.  At  this  time  she  felt  obliged  to  speak, 
but  the  result  was  only  what  she  had  feared. 
Darrell,  enraged  at  her  discovery,  punished  her 
in  a  thousand  painful  ways  for  her  "prying  in- 
solence " — the  name  he  gave  her  attempt  at  ex- 
postulation. 

The  summer  was  spent  at  their  country-seat, 
with  the  house  always  full  of  guests.  In  Sep- 
tember Elizabeth  went  to  visit  her  old  aunt,  Ja- 
net Crauford,  and  Darrell  received  an  invitation 
to  attend  the  Chief  Magistrate  and  Cabinet  upon 
one  of  those  "presidential  tours"  which  have 
grown  into  a  custom  of  late  years,  and  prove 
more  expensive  than  a  "royal  progress "  under 
their  republican  name. 

Toward  the  middle  of  October  the  husband 
and  wife  again  met  at  their  house  in  town. 


120 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


It  was  hard  for  Elizabeth  to  be  patient  in  these 
days.  Life  had  closed  about  her  so  circum- 
scribed, so  narrow,  that  she  felt  like  one  shut  in 
a  cell  into  which  there  could  only  enter  just  air 
enough  to  prevent  suffocation.  Disappointed 
in  her  dreams — thwarted  in  her  aims — not  even 
allowed  to  make  a  rightful  use  of  the  fortune 
which  she  regarded  as  a  stewardship — bound  to 
the  man  through  whom  these  and  other  troubles 
came,  and  forced  into  the  knowledge  that  greed 
and  avarice  contended  in  his  soul  with  darker 
vices,  which  were  dragging  him  so  rapidly  down 
that  soon  the  hollow  fabric  of  his  reputation  must 
crumble,  and  he  lose  the  one  restraint  which 
could  keep  him  from  deeper  degradation— the 
approving  verdict  of  the  world. 

She  endeavored  to  learn  the  lesson  of  not  look- 
ing forward — sought  to  live  each  day  by  itself; 
trying  to  see  how  she  might  best  use  this  disci- 
pline for  the  development  of  her  own  soul.  But 
this  was  a  pain  too ;  it  seemed  so  petty  thus  to 
concentrate  life  upon  herself;  it  was  sad  to  think 
she  had  not  been  considered  worthy  to  be  of  use 
in  her  day  and  generation. 

She  was  young 'still,  and  grand  dreams  are  so 
natural  at  her  age ! 

She  visited  her  hospital  —  attended  to  the 
wants  of  her  poor — went  into  society,  since  her 
position  rendered,  this  a  duty — and  so  time  wore 
on.  What  would  come  after  ?  Over  and  over 
she  asked  herself  this  question — asked  it  as  hope- 
lessly as  the  young  dojvhcn  existence  closes 
about  them,  dull,  purposeless,  and  gray,  and  no 
efforts,  no  struggles,  can  show  a  path  toward  the 
light.  But  she  triea-to  bear — tried  to  be  patient. 

At  least  her  home.was  just  now  untroubled  by 
angry  words  or  contentions.  Vaughan  had  re- 
turned in  one  of  his  most  genial  moods.  He 
was  immersed  in  business,  but  the  men  she  saw 
about  him  at  this  time  gave  her  a  hope  that  for 
a  while,  at  least,  his  habits  of  dissipation  were 
kept  in  abeyance  by  the  engrossing  interests  of 
politics  and  the  numberless  other  schemes  in 
which  he  was  engaged. 

Launce  Cromlin  also  came  back.  He  meant 
to  sail  for  Europe  toward  winter,  and  various 
matters  demanded  his  presence  in  New  York 
before  setting  out  on  his  journey,  from  which  he 
might  not  return  for  years.  Vaughan  went  to 
see  him,  insisted  on  being  friendly,  inviting  him 
to  the  house  with  such  urgency,  and  causing 
Elizabeth  to  add  her  persuasions,  that  Launce  • 
could  not  refuse  without  downright  rudeness. 
The  quiet  and  hard  work  of  the  past  months  had 
helped  him  to  overcome  the  feverish  restlessness 
which  beset  him  in  the  spring.  He  could  meet 
Elizabeth,  confident  that  no  wrong  thought,  no 
weak  grieving  over  thwarted  possibilities,  troub- 
led his  mind.  Then,  too,  he  was  going  away ; 
half  their  lives  might  pass  before  they  should 
meet  again. 

Mr.  Carstoc  was  still  in  town,  but  he  had  near- 


ly completed  the  business  which  Vaughan  had 
intrusted  to  his  charge,  and  would  soon  return 
to  his  post  in  California.  His  society  always 
cheered  Elizabeth,  and  was  a  great  pleasure  to 
the  solitary  woman.  She  had  grown  attached  to 
the  quiet,  elderly  man.  He  was  so  honest,  so 
straightforward,  so  earnest  and  good  in  his  sim- 
plicity, that  his  visits  came  like  a  breath  of  fresh 
mountain  air  into  the  close,  vitiated  atmosphere 
of  her  life. 

Then  Vaughan  was  called  away  by  business. 
Some  difficulty  had  arisen  in  regard  to  the  title 
to  a  tract  of  land  which  he  owned  in  Virginia, 
and  it  was  necessary  to  attend  personally  to  the 
matter. 

He  had  been  gone  ten  days,  when  one  morn- 
ing a  letter  from  him  was  brought  to  Elizabeth 
as  she  sat  alone  in  her  favorite  room.  He  sel- 
dom wrote  nowadays  during  his  absences  un- 
less there  were  a  necessity  therefor.  She  opened 
the  envelope  and  found  a  hastily  written  note, 
beginning  with  a  decorous  "Dear  Queenie,"  and 
going  at  once  into  the  business  details  she  had 
expected  to  find — following  by  good  wishes  for 
her  health,  a  hope  that  she  was  amusing  herself, 
and  winding  all  up  with  the  information  that  he 
was  "her  affectionate  husband." 

There  was  food  for  mournful  meditation  in  the 
epistle,  just  from  what  it  lacked.  Whatever 
may  be  the  circumstances  which  have  caused 
the  estrangement,  the  desert  is,  indeed,  reached 
when  husband  and  wife  are  only  kept  together 
by  a  community  of  worldly  interest,  a  regard  {or 
the  decencies  of  life,  or  a  sense  of  duty  :  perhaps 
they  suffer  most  who  are  detained  by  the  latter 
bond. 

But  Elizabeth  had  often  enough  thought  of 
these  things:  she  was  glad  that  just  now  she 
lacked  leisure.  She  hastened  to  put  the  letter 
out  of  sight  and  attend  to  the  request  it  con- 
tained. Darrell  needed  certain  deeds  and  pa- 
pers ;  he  hoped  that  by  aid  of  these  the  people 
might  be  induced  to  compromise  and  prevent 
the  necessity  of  a  lawsuit.  He  told  her  where 
she  would  find  a  number  of  keys,  which  boxes 
she  was  to  open,  the  'engrossing  whereby  she 
would  recognize  the  documents.  To  read  the 
directions  one.  would  have  supposed  Vaughan  the 
most  methodical  of  men  ;  but  Elizabeth  had  too 
often  had  experience  of  strange  lapses  of  mem- 
ory on  his  part  to  be  much  surprised  when,  after 
patient  search,  the  papers  were  not  discovered  in 
either  of  the  trunks  he  mentioned. 

These  boxes,  along  with  a  variety  of  others, 
were  in  a  light  closet  off  Vaughan's  dressing- 
room.  It  was  possible  she  might  find  the  pa- 
pers in  some  other  trunk.  Several  of  them  were 
not  locked — their  contents  unimportant ;  noth- 
ing, at  least,  like  the  documents  he  had  described. 
Then  she  perceived  an  old  packing-case  ;  this  was 
locked ;  none  of  the  keys  she  had  brought  were 
of  use.  She  went  to  her  chamber,  took  a  bunch 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


121 


of  her  own  keys,  and  at  last  succeeded  in  open- 
ing the  trunk. 

It  had  belonged  to  old  Mr.  Vaughan ;  his 
name  was  on  the  lid ;  there  were  various  pack- 
ages of  papers  in  his  writing.  Every  thing  con- 
nected with  the  dead  man's  memory  was  pre- 
cious to  Elizabeth.  She  turned  over  the  con- 
tents with  a  carefulness  which,  had  her  husband 
seen,  would  have  called  forth  a  contemptuous 
smile  for  what  he  would  have  termed  a  bit  of 
sentimental  folly  :  perhaps  it  was  such ;  but  it  is 
not  a  bad  thing  for  any  human  being  to  possess 
the  capability  for  that  sort  of  romantic  sentiment. 

There,  were  numerous  deeds  among  the  great 
mass  of  documents,  pamphlets,  and  similiar  mat- 
ters which  filled  the  trui.k,  but  those  Darrell 
wanted  were  not  there.  She  had  taken  every 
thing  out ;  there  was  a  heavy  writing-desk  and 
other  articles  not  easy  to  lift,  but  she  called  no 
assistance,  knowing  how  great  was  her  husband's 
dislike  to  have  any  one  meddle  with  his  papers. 
Nothing  but  an  urgent  need  could  have  induced 
him  to  commission  her  to  search  among  them. 
But  the  deeds  were  not  there.  She  put  the'con- 
tents  back,  and  was  closing  the  trunk  when  she 
perceived  a  little  box  that  had  fallen  out ;  it  was 
tied  about  with  a  cord  ;  she  had  no  hesitation  in 
opening  it  because  it  had  belonged  to  old  Mr. 
Vaughan.  It  might  be  some  relic  that  would  be 
pleasant  to  keep.  She  had  discovered  a  variety 
of  trifles — a  seal,  a  carved  paper-cutter,  and  the 
like,  which  she  meant  to  retain.  So  she  opened 
the  box,  raised  the  cotton  which  lay  next  the  lid, 
and  the  gleam  of  jewels  caught  her  eye.  There 
were  a  number  of  unset  diamonds,  a  stud,  a 
ring,  and  a  large  emerald.  Elizabeth  knew 
enough  about  gems  to  be  certain  that  these  were 
valuable ;  the  ring  struck  her  fancy  from  its 
quaint  setting.  She  put  it  on  her  finger,  and 
took  the  box  to  her  own  room. 

Her  maid  chanced  to  enter  at  that  moment, 
and  raised  her  hands  and  voice  in  horror  at  her 
mistress's  appearance. 

"Only  look  in  the  glass,"  moaned  Margot; 
"only  look." 

Elizabeth  did  look,  and  could  not  help  laugh- 
ing :  her  dressing-gown  was  decorated  with  fes- 
toons of  dust,  and  her  face  adorned  in  the  same 
fashion.  She  hastened  to  dress,  that  she  might 
write  to  Darrell  and  tell  him  how  unsuccessful 
her  search  had  been ;  but  before  she  began  her 
letter  there  came  a  telegram.  She  was  not  sur- 
prised on  opening  it  to  find  a  message  that  Dar- 
rell had  discovered  the  papers  among  those  he 
had  taken  with  him. 

These  lapses  of  memory,  which  would  have 
been  the  merest  trifles  in  the  case  of  another, 
had  a  painful .  significance  to  Elizabeth  when 
Vaughan  was  concerned ;  for  she  knew  their 
cause,  and  she  knew  too  that  they,  like  other 
symptoms  which  proved  the  baleful  effects  of  the 
poison  to  which  he  yielded  more  and  more,  were 


increasing  rapidly.  It  was  so  dreadful  to  do 
nothing  ;  to  sit  still,  and  see  the  man  rush  on  to 
destruction — and  yet  she  was  powerless  ;  plead- 
ing or  expostulation  from  her  only  made  him 
worse. 

They  came  to  tell  her  that  visitors  were  be- 
low. She  went  down  to  receive  them ;  spent  a 
half-hour  in  that  frivolous  talk  which  is  so  inex- 
pressibly wearisome  when  one  has  heart  and 
brain  full  of  anxieties  and  cares. 

Just  as  these  guests  were  taking  their  leave, 
Lauuce  Cromlin  was  announced.  He  did  not 
often  visit  her,  but  it  was  always  a  pleasure  to . 
see  him  come ;  it  was  a  little  lifdng  of  the  dull 
mist  which  closed  over  her  life  to  talk  with 
Launce,  to  see  some  one  who  lived  in  the  higher 
world  of  work  and  art  in  which  her  dreaming 
girlhood  had  been  spent. 

She  was  playing  to  him,  and  he  standing  by 
the  piano ;  chancing  to  look  down  at  her  hands, 
he  noticed  the  ring,  which  she  had  forgotten. 
Later  he  spoke  of  it,  and  she  drew  it  from  her 
finger,  and  handed  it  to  him. 

"  It  is  very  quaint,  is  it  not  ?"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "It  is  an  old  Spanish 
setting  ;  you  may  occasionally  find  such  in.  Cali- 
fornia ;  they  came,  I  suppose,  from  Mexico — no- 
body knows  how  old  they  may  be.  I  suppose 
you  picked  this  up  in  Europe  ?" 

"No  ;  it  belonged — at  least  I  think  it  must 
have  belonged — to  your  uncle." 

Then  she  told  him  about  her  discovery  of  the 
box  of  jewels — went  to  her  room,  and  brought 
them  for  him  to  look  at.  They  both  arrived  at 
the  same  conclusion  in  'regard  to  the  stones — 
that  old  Mr.  Vaughan  had  purchased  them  in 
California ;  they  had  been  put  aside,  and  had 
escaped  Darrell's  notice,  if,  indeed,  he  had  ever 
examined  the  trunk. 

"Probably  Mr.  Carstoe  sent  that  trunk  be- 
cause he  saw  it  contained  papers  and  deeds," 
Launce  said,  "and  neither  he  nor  Vaughan  ever 
examined  its  contents  carefully. " 
.  While  they  were  still  looking  at  the  gems,  a 
servant  came  in  with  a  message  from  Mr.  Car- 
stoe— he  wished  to  know  if  Mrs.Vaughan  could 
receive  him.  Kindly  as  Elizaletli  treated  him, 
he  was  always  careful  in  his  humility  not  to 
trespass  upon  her  goodness.  This  cordial  friend- 
ship she  showed  him  was  the  most  beautiful 
thing  that  had  come  into  his  commonplace  exist- 
ence for  years  and  years.  He  felt  as  if  a  lovely 
flower-garden  had  suddenly  opened  beside  the 
narrow,  wearisome  path  he  had  so  long  trodden 
with  patient  feet,  and  he  could  not  enough  mar- 
vel at  God's  graciousness  in  allowing  the  dullness 
of  his  way  to  be  thus  brightened. 

As  Elizabeth  moved  forward  to  receive  him, 
holding  out  her  hand  with  her  customary  friend- 
liness, he  caught  sight  of  the  gleaming  circlet 
upon  her  finger.  Its  resemblance  to  that  ring 
which  was  connected  with  one  of  the  most  pain- 


122 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


ful  episodes  of  his  life  was  a  mere  chance,  of 
course,  but  it  set  him  thinking  of  that  time. 
Between  the  reflections  thus  called  up,  and  the 
usual  confusion  which  beset  him  on  entering  any 
feminine  presence,  he  became  so  nervous  that 
Elizabeth  began  to  talk  on  the  first  subject  that 
suggested  itself,  and  Launce  good-naturedly  tried 
to  aid  her  in  restoring  the  shy  man  to  composure. 

Elizabeth  was  absently  turning  the  ring  about 
on  her  finger,  and  the  action  reminded  Launce 
that  he  still  held  the  open  box  of  jewels  in  his 
hand. 

"See,  Carstoe,"  he  said,  "what  Mrs.Vaughan 
found  this  morning  among  some  old  papers  of 
my  uncle's." 

He  moved  to  Carstoe 's  side,  holding  out  the 
box ;  a  ray  of  sunlight  struck  the  gems,  and 
their  radiance  flashed  full  in  the  startled  eyes  of 
the  old  man. 

"And  this  ring,"  Elizabeth  added,  drawing 
the  jewel  from  her  finger,  and  adding  it  to  the 
contents  of  the  box. 

At  the  same  instant  a  sen-ant  entered  :  Mr. 
Vaughan's  lawyer  had  called,  and  desired  to  see 
her  at  once.  She  made  a  hasty  excuse,  and  left 
the  mom  without  noticing  the  look  of  horror 
that  nad  paled  Carstoe's  face,  or  the  amazement 
with  which  Cromlin  stood  regarding  him. 

"What  on  earth  is  the  matter?"  asked 
Launce,  as  the  door  closed.  "Are  you  ill? 
You're  as  white  as  a  ghost." 

Carstoe  extended  his  trembling  hand,  and 
took  the  box.  He  held  it  for  a  while,  staring 
down  at  the  gems,  which  flashed  out  rainbow 
hues  in  the  sunlight,  speechless  and  immovable. 
Launce  spoke  again,  but  he  did  not  answer — 
evidently  did  not  hear.  Presently  he  let  his 
hand  sink  upon  one  knee,  as  if  the  tiny  box  had 
been  some  heavy  weight  which  he  could  with  dif- 
ficulty support.  Launce  stood  still  and  watched 
him,  utterly  confounded.'  It  was  not  a  sudden 
illness  that  had  seized  the  man ;  in  some  way 
the  jewels  were  connected  with  this  inexplicable 
agitation. 

Carstoe  lifted  the  ring  and  examined  it  closely. 
His  face  was  that  of  one  who  had  stumbled  un- 
wittingly upon  some  dreadful  discovery,  and  was 
trying  to  doubt  the  evidence  of  his  own  senses. 
He  laid  the  ring  upon  the  broad  chair-arm  at 
length,  and  began  taking  up  the  jewels,  diamond 
after  diamond.  He  spread  them  all  out  upon  the 
palm  of  his  hand — stones  noticeable  from  their 
size  and  purity. 

There  were  also  several  immense  yellow  dia- 
monds of  unusual  lustre,  and  a  great  emerald 
with  a  tiny  nick  upon  one  of  the  edges.  They 
shone  and  flashed,  and  Launce  gazed  wonder- 
ingly  from  the  gems  to  the  white  face,  and  back 
to  the  glittering  baubles  that  sent  forth  new 
gleams  with  every  movement  of  the  shaking 
hand. 

"  Carstoe !"  he  exclaimed  again,  fairly  terri- 


fied by  the  horror  which  gathered  more  heavily 
on  the  wrinkled  countenance. 

"Take  them  away,"  Carstoe  groaned  ;  "get 
them  out  of  my  sight !  I  thought  I  was  crazy 
at  first — I  wish  I  had  been ;  oh,  I  wish  I  had 
been." 

Launce  brushed  the  jewels  from  Carstoe's 
hand  into  the  box,  and  shut  the  cover  over 
them. 

"Do  tell  me  what  is  the  matter,"  he  pleaded. 

"I  want  to  go — let  me  get  away, "returned 
Carstoe,  in  the  same  slow,  unnatural  voice.  "I 
can't  see  her  again  yet ;  say  I  was  ill — any  thing. 
And  oh,  Launce  Cromlin,  bid  her  put  them  away 
— hide  them — never  let  them  see  the  light ;  don't 
forget  that — don't  forget !" 

He  had  almost  reached  the  door  before  Launce 
could  do  any  thing  but  stare  at  him  in  dumb 
wonder.  Then  he  hurried  forward,  saying — 

"  Let  me  walk  to  the  hotel  with  you,  Carstoe 
— you  are  not  well ;  you  oughtn't  to  go  alone." 

"Stay  where  you  are,"  returned  Carstoe, in  a 
sharp,  imperative  tone,  that  one  would  not  have 
believed  his  A-oice  could  utter.  "  You  must  tell 
her  something  —  she  mustn't  suspect  —  you're 
quick-witted  enough — oh  use  your  wits  to  some 
purpose.  There's  need,  for  I  can't  think — I  must 
get  away  before  she  comes." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  tell  her?"  asked 
Launce,  holding  fast  to  his  sleeve. 

"Haven't  I  said?  To  shut  them  np — hide 
them ;  never  to  let  any  human  creature  see 
them,"  whispered  Carstoe,  shaking  from  head  to 
foot  till  he  fairly  tottered  to  and  fro.  "  Be  care- 
ful how  you  do  it ;  don't  let  her  think  there's 
any  reason.  Say  he  might  not  like  it ;  say  I 
could  not  wait.  Take  care  what  you  do,  Launce 
Cromlin  ;  there  mustn't  any  trouble  come  near 
her — she  has  enough  to  bear,  God  help  her. 
Somehow  I  understand  a  great  deal  that  I  was 
blind  not  to  have  seen  before." 

He  pulled  his  arm  from  Launce's  hold,  and 
went  out  of  the  room,  motioning  the  young  man 
impatiently  back  when  he  would  have  followed. 

Launce  sat  down,  still  holding  the  box  of 
jewels,  and  waited  for  Elizabeth  to  return,  feel- 
ing as  dazed  and  astray  as  people  usually  do 
when  some  bit  of  mysterious  tragedy  forces  itself 
suddenly  out  across  the  decorous  monotony  of 
existence. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

HOLDING    COUNSEL. 

Two  days  elapsed  before  Cromlin  saw  Mr. 
Carstoe.  He  called  several  times  at  the  hotel, 
but  the  clerks  told  him  the  gentleman  was  un- 
well, and  had  given  directions  that  no  visitors 
should  be  admitted  to  his  room.  At  last  Launce 
grew  too  anxious  to  support  the  uncertainty 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


123 


longer,  and  absolutely  forced  his  way  to  the 
chamber.  Mr.  Carstoe  was  up  and  dressed,  and 
sitting  by  a  window,  but  he  looked  as  changed 
as  if  a  long  illness  had  wasted  him. 

"I  couldn't  endure  it,"  Launce  said,  as  he 
entered.  "You  must  excuse  my  forcing  your 
door,  Mr.  Carstoe,  but  I  was  too  anxious  about 
you  to  stop  for  etiquette." 

"I  am  glad  you  have  come,"  Carstoe  replied, 
holding  out  his  hand.  "  I  was  going  to  send  for 
you.  I  have  thought  and  thought — I  can't  see 
my  way  clear.  Launce  Cromlin,  you're  an  hon- 
est man  ;  you  must  help  me  to  do  what  is  right." 

He  did  not  speak  with  any  excitement;  his 
voice  was  weak  and  languid — in  keeping  with 
his  appearance.  Launce  sat  down  by  him,  re- 
taining the  worn  hand,  and  pressing  it  with  gen- 
tle firmness.  It  gave  the  tired  man  a  sensation 
of  strength,  that  vigorous  young  grasp  upon  his 
weary  muscles.  He  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"You  don't  need  any  one  to  help  you  do 
right,"  Launce  answered,  speaking  cheerfully. 
"  .But  if  easing  your  mind  a  little  will  do  you  any 
good,  then  talk  to  me.  Something  that  troubles 
you  is  making  you  ill ;  this  is  no  bodily  ailment." 

"No,  I'm  well  enough,"  Carstoe  answered. 
"It's  an  awful  thing,  Launce  Cromlin,  to  have 
your  faith  in  somebody  you've  trusted  knocked 
away  at  one  blow.  And  I  was  so  proud  of  his 
friendship — not  so  fond  as  I  got  to  be  of  you 
during  that  long  illness ;  but  I  honored  and  re- 
spected him  so ;  and  now — " 

He  passed  his  disengaged  hand  across  his  eyes, 
and  sat  silent  for  a  while. 

"  Of  whom  are  you  speaking  ?"  Launce  asked ; 
but  he  knew  who  was  meant.  He  tried  to  get 
away  from  the  conviction,  feeling  as  if  it  rose  out 
of  his  own  suspicions,  out  of  a  desire  to  believe 
the  worst  of  Parrell  Vaughan  ;  all  the  same  he 
knew  that  it  was  Darrell  of  whom  Mr.  Carstoe 
spoke. 

"It  seems  like  an  ugly  dream  yet, "Carstoe 
continued,  "for  all  I  have  thought  of  nothing 
else  two  whole  nights  and  days.  What  did  you 
say  to  her  ?  Did  she  ask  why  I  did  not  wait  ?" 

"  Eh— Mrs.  Vaughan  ?  Oh,  yes.  I  told  her 
you  had  not  time." 

".I  had  a  note  from  her  this  morning,"  Car- 
stoe said. 

He  took  from  his  breast-pocket  the  dainty 
,  billet,  and  gave  it  to  Launce.  It  was  a  pleasure 
to  hold  the  violet-scented  sheet,  to  read  the  kind- 
ly words  of  inquiry.  Suddenly  Launce  became 
sensible  of  this  feeling,  and  laid  the  paper  down 
on  the  table.  It  was  a  little  thing,  but  just  so 
resolutely  did  he  put  every  forbidden  thought 
and  feeling  in  regard  to  this  woman  out  of  his 
mind. 

"  Such  a  dear,  sweet  letter ;  so  like  her,"  Mr. 
Carstoe  said.  "  She's  an  angel,  that  girl,  Launce 
Cromlin  ;  I  feel  a  better  man  for  knowing  her. 
And  God  knows  what  is  in  store  for  her!" 


"I  think  she  would  tell  you  not  to  be  afraid 
just  because  God  does  know,"  Launce  replied, 
softly. 

The  old  man's  words  filled  him  with  a  keen 
anxiety,  the  more  painful  from  their  very  vague- 
ness ;  yet  somehow  the  comforting  words  came 
to  his  lips — uttered  themselves,  as  it  were — as  if 
Elizabeth  had  prompted  them. 

"Yes,"  sighed  Carstoe;  "I'm  an  old  hea- 
then ;  I  keep  forgetting  that !"  Then  he  asked, 
eagerly — "Did  you  tell  her — the — the  jewels, 
you  know — did  you  warn  her  to  put  them  away?" 

"Oh,  yes ;  I  said  she  had  better." 

"But  not  in  a  way  to  trouble  her — to  make 
her  think  there  was  any  thing  amiss  ?" 

"No ;  I  am  sure  not.  I  said  perhaps  Darrell 
had  picked  them  up  as  a  present  for  her,  and 
had  forgotten  to  have  them  set.  He  would  feel 
disappointed  if  he  found  she  had  anticipated 
him  ;  she  had  spoken  of  doing  that." 

"Yes ;  and  she  put  them  away — all  of  them  ?" 

Launce  nodded.  He  was  thinking  how  sad 
she  looked,  sad  and  startled,  when  he  spoke  of 
Dan-ell's  having  forgotten,  and  wondering  what 
the  look  meant.  He  did  not  know  what  a  signi- 
fication his  words  had  to  her  ears.  Those  lapses 
of  memory  to  which  Vaughan  was  becoming 
more  and  more  subject  filled  her  mind  with 
alarm  at  the  possibilities  they  suggested. 

"If  they  only  had  not  been  found ! "  he  heard 
Mr.  Carstoe  say.  "  I  don't  see  any  good  it  can 
do.  What  was  the  use  of  my  knowing  ?  I'm 
growing  an  old  man ;  it's  very  hard  to  have  such 
a  blow." 

Launce  could  not  bring  himself  to  ask  a  single 
question  further ;  he  had  no  desire  to  pry  into 
any  of  DarreH's  secrets — no  wish  to  have  further 
confirmation  that  his  opinion  of  the  man  was  a 
just  one.  He  was  going  away  soon;  he  and 
Darrell  might  not  meet  half-a-dozen  times  dur- 
ing the  remainder  of  their  lives.  Whatever  this 
discovery  was  that  had  so  terribly  shocked  Car- 
stoe, he  would  prefer  not  to  hear  it.  But  after 
an  instant  his  companion  continued — 

"  But  you  must  help  me  to  do  what  is  right, 
Cromlin ;  you  must  help  me  to  do  what  is  right." 

"I  will  do  any  thing  I  can — I  have  told  you 
that, "  Launce  answered,  almost  impatiently.  In 
spite  of  himself  he  was  to  be  forced  to  sit  in  judg- 
ment on  Darrell,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  were  doing 
the  man  a  wrong,  since  he  came  with  strong  prej- 
udices in  favor  of  his  guilt,  no  matter  what  the 
case  might  be.  "I  don't  know  that  you  ought 
to  ask  my  advice  either,"  he  continued  hastily. 
"See  here,  Mr.  Carstoe — it  is  something  con- 
nected with  Vaughan,  with  my  cousin,  that 
troubles  you.  Now  I'm  inclined  always  to  think 
ill  of  him — to  put  harsh  constructions  on  his  ac- 
tions ;  so,  after  all,  I  am  not  a  fit  person  to  coun- 
sel with." 

"  Yes,  it  is  about  Vaughan,"  Mr.  Carstoe  re- 
plied slowly.  "Your  likes  or  dislikes  can't  make 


124 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


any  difference ;  it  is  too  plain  a  case.  If  I  need 
not  believe — if  there  were  any  way  of — I'm  be- 
having absurdly — excuse  me — really  my  head  is 
so  disturbed  I  think  I  don't  quite  know  what  1 
say." 

"You  are  worn  out  from  lack  of  sleep,  and 
staying  shut  up  in  the  house,  "Launce  said,  kindly. 

"  WJiy,  I  believe  even  yet  you  don't  get  near 
the  truth — you  don't  suspect  what  it  is  he  has 
done, "exclaimed  Carstoe. 

"I  have  not  the  slightest  idea.  I  know  so 
little  about  Vaughan's  affairs — " 

He  paused ;  Carstoe  had  leaned  forward,  press- 
ing his  hand  on  Launce's  knee — it  was  pitiable  to 
see  the  fresh  horror  and  pain  which  came  into 
his  face. 

"  You  remember  about  my  loss  in  California," 
he  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  little  more  than  a 
whisper.  "  The  jewels  that  were  stolen  from 
me — the — " 

"  Good  God  !"  cried  Launce. 

"Those  diamonds  that  Mrs.Vaughan  showed 
us  were  the  stones  I  lost !" 

Launce  sank  back  in  his  chair,  his  face  grown 
as  pale  as  Carstoe's  own,  and  for  a  few  seconds 
the  two  men  stared  dumbly  in  each  other's  eyes. 

"AVhy,  I  can't  understand !"  muttered  Launce 
at  last.  "  A  portion  of  the  diamonds  were  found 
in  the  woman's  possession — " 

Carstoe  interrupted  him  by  taking  a  little  pa- 
per from  his  pocket ;  he  unfolded  it,  and  held  up 
a  crescent-shaped  diamond  stud. 

"  Do  you  recognize  this  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes ;  it  was  with  the  diamonds.  How  did 
you  get  it  ?" 

"It  is  the  mate  to  the  one  you  saw — the  one 
that  was  hidden  among  Uarrell  Vaughan's  things : 
this  is  the  stud  we  found  on  the  woman  when 
she  was  searched,"  returned  Carstoe,  in  the  same 
repressed,  awe- stricken  voice. 

"  You  are  sure — you  can't  be  mistaken  ?" 

"You  know  I  can  not — you  know  I  would 
give  my  right  hand  to  find  out  that  I  was.  If 
it  had  been  only  the  unset  stones — but  the  studs 
— the  ring — couldn't  you  swear  to  that  ring  any 
where,  though  you  have  only  seen  it  once?" 

"  Yes — it  is  so  peculiar." 

"And  the  yellow  diamonds — the  emerald  with 
the  nick  in  the  edge  :  see,  this  is  the  description 
of  them  I  gave  at  the  time. " 

He  took  up  an  old  newspaper  from  a  bundle 
of  letters  that  lay  on  the  table,  and  gave  it  to 
Launce.  It  contained  an  account  of  the  trial. 
Launce  read  it  through.  Then  n  new  horror 
started  up  amid  the  confusion  and  trouble  of  his 
brain. 

"Have  you  thought,"  he  said,  "  that  woman 
is  innocent  ?  She  has  been  four  years  in  prison, 
and  she  is  innocent." 

" Great  heavens  !"  groaned  Carstoe,  "I  have 
thought  until  I  seem  to  have  almost  lost  my 
senses!  Cromlin,  you  remember  my  telling  you 


of  your  uncle's  sudden  attack — of  this  woman's 
coming  to  visit  him  just  before  ?" 

"  She  had  gone  to  him  about  Darrell," Launce 
said. 

"  Yes !  Vaughan  must  have  known  it.  Either 
she  held  some  secret  of  his,  and  he  was  afraid 
of  her,  or  he  did  it  out  of  revenge  ;  but  Darrell 
Vaughan  stole"  those  jewels  that  day  he  went  to 
my  room.  He  put  the  stud  in  the  woman's 
dress  while  she  was  under  the  influence  of  some 
drug— his  evidence  sent  her  to  prison !  There, 
I  have  thought  it  over  and  over,  but  I  can  not 
get  away  from  the  facts  ;  nor  can  you. " 

"But  to  keep  the  diamonds — " 

"He  dared  not  sell  them.  He  put  them  in 
the  safest  possible  place  ;  there  was  scarcely  a 
chance  of  their  ever  being  found  ;  and  after  all 
he  has  betrayed  himself." 

"But  what  is  to  be  done ?" 

"  Haven't  I  asked  myself  the  question  till  I'm 
dizzy  and  sick  ?  Yes  ;  what  is  to  be  done.?" 

He  bent  his  head  upon  the  table,  and  groaned 
aloud. 

For  many  moments  Launce  sat  immersed  in 
thought.  His  powers  of  reflection  were  not  dis- 
turbed, as  poor  Carstoe's  had  been  during  these 
weary  days  and  nights,  by  any  shock  to  his  heart 
— the  pain  of  discovering  that  one  he  had  trusted 
and  honored  was  a  villain.  He  had  long  known 
that  Darrell  was  this ;  whatever  suspicions  he 
might  have  entertained  of  his  cousin's  utter 
\vorthlessness  had  become  convictions  during 
his  stay  in  California. 

It  was  not  alone  a  desire  for  revenge  which 
had  prompted  that  infernal  plot  against  the 
woman ;  she  had  known  some  secret,  and  he 
had  conceived  the  idea  of  this  charge,  not  only 
to  get  her  out  of  his  way  for  the  time,  but  to 
render  any  revelation  she  might  ever  attempt 
without  weight. 

And  during  these  dreadful  years  she  had  lan- 
guished in  prison,  and  the  man  had  gone  serenely 
on  his  path,  courted,  triumphant,  untroubled  by 
a  single  memory  of  his  hapless  victim.  Strict 
justice  demanded  that  this  man  should  be  given 
up  to  the  punishment  due  to  his  crime ;  but 
Launce  never  for  an  instant  contemplated  the 
possibility  of  acting  thus.  Eight  or  not,  it  was 
simply  a  thing  impossible  to  do.  It  might'  be 
tampering  with  justice,  it  might  be  wrong,  but 
Dan-ell  must  be  shielded  from  the  consequences 
of  his  crime.  And  the  woman — the  unfortunate 
creature  who  at  some  time  had  been  in  some 
fashion  linked  with  the  man's  tortuous,  evil  life — 
she  must1  be  set  free  :  that  must  be  accomplished 
at  any  cost,  and  with  the  least  possible  delay. 
When  he  thought  of  her,  Launce's  indignation 
rose  hotly ;  and  as  his  fancy  painted  the  picture 
of  that  wretched  creature  wearing  out  the  last 
remnant  of  her  youth  in  a  prison  cell ;  losing 
the  last  shred  of  faith  in  man  or  God  in  her  re- 
bellion against  this  unmerited  punishment ;  los- 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  UEIR. 


125 


ing,  by  another's  sin,  the  faintest  hope  of  ever 
being  .able  to  regret  or  repent  her  misused  life — 
he  felt  almost  that  it  was  an  unpardonable  guilt 
on  his  part  to  think  of  screening  the  man. 

But  he  could  not  betray  him — he  could  not ! 
It  did  not  even  need  that  Elizabeth's  image 
should  rise  in  his  rnind  to  keep  this  resolve  set- 
tled and  firm.  He  did  think  of  her — ah,  with 
such  pity !  such  yearning  commiseration !  Why, 
the  miserable  woman  pining  in  prison  on  the  far 
Pacific  shore  was  almost  to  be  envied  compared 
to  her !  Launce  realized  fully  what  her  life 
must  be  :  that  young  face  with  all  the  joyfulness 
of  youth  gone  out  of  it — those  beautiful  eyes, 
heavy  with  thwarted  dreams,  with  blighted  hopes, 
told  their  own  story.  She  bore  her  burden,  and 
would  continue  to  bear;  but  Launce  knew  that 
her  husband's  character  was  no  secret  to  her — 
knew  that  she  lived  degraded  in  her  own  eyes 
from  this  companionship,  which  must  go  on  till 
death  set  her  free. 

At  last  Mr.  Carstoe's  voice  roused  him.  Launce 
looked  tip.  The  old  man  had  raised  his  head, 
and  was  gazing  drearily  at  him. 

"Can  you  see  the  right  way,  Cromlin?"  he 
asked.  "Is  it  clear  to  you  what  we  ought  to 
do?" 

"  Right  or  wrong,  I  shall  never  betray  Dar"- 
rell,"  returned  Launce,  firmly.  "  That  much  is 
clear  to  me.  Never !" 

"I  am  glad  ;  you  must  decide,"  Carstoe  said, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief.  "It  would  kill  her — no, 
the  worst  of  it  would  be  she  would  have  to  live 
— his  wife,  you  know." 

"I  hare  no  need  to  consider  his  wife,"  Launce 
replied,  almost  harshly.  "  But  that  unfortunate 
woman  ;  she  must  be  set  free,  Carstoe." 

"  Oh,  that's  worse  than  any  thing  !"  cried  the 
old  man.  "Her  face  haunts  me  like  a  ghost ; 
just  as  she  looked  that  day  in  court,  with  her 
awful  eyes  on  Dnrrell,  never  moving — never — 
oh,  to  think  that  I  have  helped  condemn  a  hu- 
man being  unjustly — " 

"  You  can  not  blame  yourself,"  Launce  inter- 
rupted. "  You  could  not  have  acted  otherwise ; 
it  is  useless  to  dwell  upon  that.  But  she  must 
have  her  freedom  now." 

"How  are  we  to  do  that  without  betraying 
him  ?" 

"I  don't  know  yet ;  but  we  must  find  a  way. 
Who  is  the  Governor  of  California  now  ?" 

"  Charles  Howell." 

"An  old  friend  of  mine ;  a  sort  of  connection, 
too,"  Launce  said.  "Carstoe,  I  must  go  to 
California  at  once.  I  believe  I  can  convince 
Howell  of  her  innocence  without  implicating 
Darrell ;  nor  can  she  hurt  him  by  any  thing  she 
may  say  or  do  after  her  liberation,  even  if  she 
wished." 

"I  shall  go  too,"  Carstoe  said.  "I  can't 
meet  him  again— I  can't!  I  must  resign  my 
agency — I —  He  was  kind  so  far  as  I  was  con- 


cerned ;  he  more  than  made  up  to  me  my  loss. 
It's  a  hard  blow,  Launce  Cromlin — a  hard  blow!" 

"I  know  what  you  feel.  Indeed,  indeed  I 
am  sorry  for  you." 

"I  couldn't  look  in  his  face  again,"  pursued 
Carstoe.  "  I  scarcely  know  what  to  write  ;  but 
he  must  know  that  I  mean  to  resign  the  agency. 
He  can  send  directions  to  me  in  California  when 
he  decides  whom  to  appoint." 

' '  When  does  a  steamer  sail  ?" 

"On  Saturday." 

"  You  must  take  two  places  in  your  own 
name, "Launce  said.  "I  shall  let  people  think 
I  have  gone  to  Europe.  We  will  go  on  Satur- 
day's steamer,  Mr.  Carstoe." 

"You're  a  great  help  and  comfort  to  me," 
Carstoe  said,  wringing  his  hand.  "  I  don't 
know  how  I  should  have  managed — I  could  see 
no  way  out !  But  you're  young  and  quick  ;  and 
you'll  be  able  to  get  the  poor  woman  free,  you  are 
sure  ?" 

"That  must  be  done,  at  any  cost ;  but  I  do 
not  think  there  will  be  much  difficulty.  This  is 
Wednesday.  You  had  better  send  at  once  and 
secure  a  state-room,  Mr.  Carstoe ;  the  hotel  people 
will  attend  to  it.  Then  you  must  lie  down  and 
res* ;  yon  are  not  fit  to  be  up.  Don't  think  any 
more  than  you  can  help.  So  far  as  that  wretch- 
ed woman  is  concerned,  we  can  set  the  matter 
partially  right.  I  can't  argue,  but  I  must  save 
Darrell." 

"Yes,  yes." 

"Help  and  befriend  her  we  can.  We  leave 
her  still  a  criminal  in  the  world's  eyes,  it  is  true; 
but  her  past  life  was  such  that  she  was  helplessly 
rained  before.  Even  if  she  were  cleared  of  this 
charge,  human  verdict  would  be  as  severe  on  her 
as  ever." 

"But  we  may  find  her  a  home,  make  her 
comfortable,  try  to  keep  her  from  going  back  to 
the  horrors  of  the  old  life." 

"  That  we  can  and  will  do  !  Now  let  us  leave 
the  matter,  Carstoe ;  I  am  tired  and  sick  with 
thinking." 

"  Shall  we  have  to  tell  him  that  we  know  ?" 

"  I  see  no  purpose  it  can  serve.  If  he  finds 
out  that  the  woman  is  free,  and  attempts  to 
trouble  her,  we  must — not  otherwise.  I  can't 
tell,  if  the  facts  were  known,  whether  Darrell 
could  be  proved  guilty.  We  know  he  is  ;  but 
the  box  belonged  to  my  uncle :  they  are  not 
Darrell's  papers.  Oh,  well,  let  it  alone ;  we 
have  decided  what  to  do." 

' '  I  am  almost  afraid  to  see  Mrs.  Vaughan 
again." 

"  She  knows  you  have  been  ill.  You  must 
tell  her  some  business  of  your  own  calls  you 
away.  You  have  nothing  more  to  do  here,  and 
can  not  wait  for  Vanghan  to  return. " 

"I  seem  to  understand  so  many  things  now," 
Carstoe  said,  after  a  brief  silence.  "  I  used  to 
wonder  sometimes  at  her  manner  toward  him. 


126 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


It  was  somehow  as  if  there  were  a  great  door 
shut  between  them ;  I  can't  explain.  I  half 
blamed  her ;  I  thought  she  did  not  fully  appre- 
ciate him ;  it  seemed  her  one  fault.  Now  I  see ! 
Cromlin,  she  is  a  miserable  woman — I  never  ad- 
mitted it  to  myself,  but  she  is — she  knows  that 
man  as  well  as  you  or  I." 

"We  can't  help  her," returned Launce,  short- 
ly. "  She  chose  her  own  life,  and  must  endure 
it — God  help  her!" 

"Did  she  choose?"  questioned  Carstoe,  with 
an  odd,  perplexed  expression  crossing  the  pallor 
of  his  face.  "  I  have  been  thinking  of  that  too. 
Oh,  there's  nothing  my  miserable  old  head  hasn't 
turned  and  bothered  over.'' 

"Don't  bother  any  more  now,"  Launce  said. 

"  Why  no,  it's  further  past  remedy  than  all 
the  rest,"  returned  Carstoe,  just  thinking  aloud 
in  his  bewilderment.  "But  she  never  knew — 
I  am  convinced  of  that.  I  could  not  understand 
her  manner  and  her  questions.  Cromlin,  she 
married  him  without  knowing!" 

"Knowing  what?"  asked  Launce,  quickly, 
trying  to  believe  that  the  man's  faculties  really 
were  a  little  disordered  by  the  shock  he  had  re- 
ceived, yet  feeling  all  the  while  that  some  new 
disclosure  of  DarreH's  treachery  was  hidden  un- 
der his  words. 

"About  the  codicil,"  Carstoe  began,  then  got 
his  senses  back  enough  to  realize  that  it  was 
worse  than  useless — an  absolute  cruelty — to  speak 
of  the  matter.  "  I  don't  know  what  I  mean," 
he  added ;  "  I'm  a  blundering  old  idiot." 

Cromlin  had  risen  to  go.  He  resumed  his 
seat.  His  face  grew  firm  and  hard,  and  his 
voice  sounded  stem  and  cold,  as  he  said — 

"  What  questions  did  Mrs.  Vaughan  ask  you? 
I  insist  upon  knowing." 

"  It  was  just  a  conversation  I  had  with  her — 
I  don't  remember  how  it  came  up — I  thought 
she  was  prejudiced  against  you — I  wanted  her  to 
like  you — " 

"Well,  well?" 

"But  I've  nothing  to  tell  you — it's  only  a 
fancy.  I  did  not  think  of  it  at  the  time,"  stam- 
mered Carstoe. 

"  Think  of  what  ?  What  did  she  not  know  ?" 
demanded  Launce.  Then  a  sudden  light  struck 
him.  He  half  started  to  his  feet ;  a  hot  rage 
thrilled  his  pulses  and  blazed  in  his  eyes.  But 
he  sat  down  again  ;  when  he  spoke  his  voice  was 
calm.  "I  want  to  hear  that  conversation  ;  you 
have  a  wonderful  memory  for  such  things;  I 
want  to  hear  every  word  that  passed  between 
you, "he  said. 

It  was  too  late  now  to  retreat.  Carstoe  told 
the  whole  in  his  hesitating  fashion,  and  when  he 
had  finished  Launce  Cromlin  knew  as  well  as  if 
Elizabeth  had  actually  revealed  it  that  Darrell 
had  kept  back  the  fact  of  his  uncle  having  meant 
that  the  two  cousins  should  have  :m  equal  chance 
to  win  her  regard. 


He  knew  this,  and  the  discovery  of  the  jewels 
rendered  it  easy  for  him  to  avenge  the  wrong  lie 
had  suffered  at  Darrell's  hands.  But  he  did 
not  want  revenge — not  even  for  an  instant  did 
the  possibility  of  such  action  dwell  in  his  mind. 
The  thought  came — he  would  have  been  more 
than  human  otherwise — but  it  did  not  take  a 
second's  hold  upon  him. 

Presently  he  rose  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"I  must  go  now,"  he  said.  "I  will  see  yon 
in  the  morning.  Try  and  rest ;  have  them  se- 
cure the  tickets ;  but  don't  attend  to  any  thing 
else  or  think  any  more  to-day." 

He  walked  slowly  homeward  through  the 
bright  autumn  sunshine,  forgetting  the  long  voy- 
age, the  duty  that  lay  before  him,  in  the  host  of 
thoughts  called  up  by  Mr.  Carstoe's  revelation. 

If  that  illness  had  not  prevented  his  reaching 
Europe,  how  different  life  might  have  been! 
But  it  was  useless  to  reflect  upon  mere  possibil- 
ities— a  power  stronger  than  his  will  had  ar- 
ranged the  whole.  He  must  accept  existence 
as  it  came  ;  the  events  which,  one  by  one,  over- 
take us  we  are  powerless  to  govern  ;  but  a  man's 
action  under  the  joy  or  discipline  which  comes  is 
within  his  own  control.  Launce  was  thinking 
this  too,  and  he  did  not  mean  his  life  to  be 
either  wasted  or  weak.  At  least  Elizabeth  had 
learned  to  judge  him  differently  from  Avhat  she 
had  once  done — she  did  not  believe  him  either 
an  idle  or  a  bad  man.  There  was  a  certain 
pleasure  in  feeling  this.  His  way  must  lead  far 
from  hers ;  now  and  then  their  paths  might 
cross  for  a  brief  space,  but  that  was  all ;  and  it 
might  have  been  so  different — it  might ! 

Darrell  Vaughan  had  kept  secret  the  real  con- 
ditions of  their  uncle's  will ;  he  had  prejudiced 
father  and  daughter  against  his  absent  relative ; 
Mr.  Crauford's  illness  had  hurried  on  the  mar- 
riage. All  these  facts  became  clear  to  him  as 
he  went  over  the  matter,  putting  the  conver- 
sation he  had  held  with  Elizabeth  the  day  he 
read  his  uncle's  letter  side  by  side  with  Mr. 
Carstoe's  testimony. 

Ah,  life  was  not  .easy — Destiny  was  a  stern 
task-mistress!  Then  Launce  remembered  in 
whose  hands  the  universe  was  held,  in  whose 
eyes  the  humblest  creature  was  regarded  with 
pity  and  love,  and  got  away  from  the  fatalistic 
theories  which  haunt  us  all  at  times.  He  be- 
lieved in  God's  mercy ;  he  had  faith  in  the  Fa- 
ther's loving  care  ;  he  would  not  doubt  because 
his  way  led  over  sharp  rocks  and  through  thorny 
places. 

But  it  was  not  easy — oh,  it  was  not  easy !  He 
had  lost  the  hope  that  makes  youth  beautiful ; 
he  had  been  shown  a  bewildering  vision,  whose 
fulfillment  would  have  rounded  his  youth  into 
perfection — then  it  had  been  snatched  away.  He 
had  lost  it,  too,  by  a  human  being's  treachery. 
Elizabeth  was  essentially  a  just  woman  ;  had  she 
known  the  conditions  of  that  codicil — the  full, 


MR.  VAUGHAX'S   HEIR, 


127 


entire  conditions — she  would  have  carried  out 
her  part  to  the  very  letter — would  have  decreed 
that  both  men  mentioned  therein  must  have  a 
chance  given,  if  both  desired  it. 

And  if  he  could  have  met  her — if  he  could 
have  convinced  her  of  his  honesty  and  truth — oh, 
it  might  all  have  been  so  different !  He  found 
himself  thinking  this,  and  turned  his  mind  reso- 
lutely upon  other  subjects.  The  vision  he  had 
cherished  was  dead — lost ;  this  woman,  who  wore 
its  likeness,  was  separated  from  him  more  effect- 
ually than  if  worlds  swept  between.  She  was 
another  man's  wife,  and'  even  speculation  upon 
chances  which  had  been  allowed  no  trial  was  a 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

WHAT     SHE     FOUND. 

IT  was  adark,dismalday,threateninga  storm, 
but  the  rain  kept  aloof,  and  the  air  was  heavy  and 
oppressive.  Elizabeth  grew  tired  of  the  confine- 
ment of  the  house,  and  went  out  for  a  brisk  walk. 

She  passed  down  the  Avenue  to  the  Parade 
Ground,  intending  to  visit  a  sick  woman  in 
Amity  Street  who  had  formerly  been  in  her  em- 
ployment. She  had  nearly  traversed  the  block 
between  Fourth  Street  and  Amity  when  she  saw 
a  group  of  mischievous  boys  worrying  an  unfor- 
tunate cat.  At  the  same  instant  a  little  girl 
dashed  out  of  one  of  the  houses,  and  flew  at  the 
urchins  in  defense  of  the  frightened  animal.  To 
do  the  gamins  justice,  they  were  not  hurting  the 
kitten  —  a  melancholy-looking  grimalkin,  with 
more  tail  than  he  knew  how  to  manage.  They 
saw  the  lady  standing  on  the  sidewalk,  and  re- 
treated around  the  corner  with  a  war-whoop 
which  might  have  led  one  to  suppose  them  de- 
scended from  Mohawk  chiefs  instead  of  heavy 
Dutchmen  or  merry  Emerald  Islanders.  The 
little  Amazon  seated  herself  on  a  door-step,  and 
began  to  cry — not  loudly ;  in  a  womanly  fashion, 
wiping  her  eyes  on  her  apron,  while  the  cat  lay 
in  her  lap,  and  stared  up  at  her  with  an  expres- 
sion of  indifference  which  spoke  ill  for  his  charac- 
ter in  the  matter  of  gratitude  and  other  proper 
sentiments. 

It  was  not  possible  for  Elizabeth  to  see  any 
creature  in  grief  or  pain  and  pass  by  "  on  the 
other  side."  She  crossed  the  street,  and,  as  she 
neared  the  child,  saw  that  one  of  her  hands  was 
bleeding,  and  she  still  grasped  in  it  the  neck  of  a 
bottle,  which  she  had  evidently  broken  in  her  on- 
slaught upon  the  boys,  for  her  dress  was  stained 
with  some  dark-colored  liquid. 

She  was  gazing  disconsolately  at  the  spots,  and 
did  not  even  look  up  as  Elizabeth  approached ; 
but  the  cat  saw  the  intruder,  and  immediately 
elevated  its  back  and  swelled  its  tail,  as  if  expect- 
ing to  be  attacked  by  a  new  enemy. 


The  child  was  an  odd-looking  thing — too  dark 
and  pale  to  be  pretty ;  but  her  short  curly  hair 
dropped  over  her  forehead  in  a  succession  of 
sunny  rings?  and  her  features  were  delicate  and 
intelligent.  Her  hat  had  fallen  off,  and  lay  on 
the  stones  near  Elizabeth,  and  her  dress,  though 
of  very  common  material,  had  evidently  been 
clean  and  tidy  until  -that  misfortune  with  the 
bottle  befell  her. 

Elizabeth  picked  up  the  hat,  and  said  kindly, 

"I  am  afraid  you  have  hurt  yourself.  You 
were  a  brave  little  girl  to  defend  kitty ;  let  me 
see  your  hand." 

The  child  raised  her  eyes — great  dark  eyes, 
so  beautiful  that  they  glorified  her  whole  face, 
and  made  Elizabeth  wonder  that  she  could  have 
thought  the  creature  plain.  She  stopped  cry- 
ing, gave  the  speaker  a  long,  solemn  look  of  in- 
quiry, then  glanced  at  the  wounded  fingers. 

"I  didn't  know  I'd  hurt  myself,"  she  an- 
swered; "but  I've  broken  the  bottle,  and  now 
Aunt  Jean  won't  have  any  liniment,  for  Mrs. 
Baines  hadn't  another  scrap — not  a  scrap." 

The  idea  was  so  dreadful  that  it  put  her  even 
beyond  the  relief  of  tears.  "She  shook  her  head 
dismally,  and  let  the  fragment  of  the  shattered 
phial  fall. 

"Perhaps  we  can  manage  about  the  liniment," 
Elizabeth  said  ;  "but  the  first  thing  is  to  attend 
to  your  hand." 

"Why,  it  does  hurt,"  said  the  child,  in  a  tone 
of  surprise;  "hurts  like  murder;  but  I  didn't 
know  it !  And,  oh  dear,  my  dress !  —  and  it 
was  a  clean  one — and  I  told  Aunt  Jean  I'd  be 
careful ;  and  now  only  look — and  it  was  all  Mo- 
ses's following  me  down-stairs.  Oh,  Mose !" 

Moses  was  the  cat,  and  he  at  once  proceeded 
to  give  another  evidence  of  the  ungrateful  nature 
which  had  before  exhibited  itself  in  that  con- 
temptuous disregard  of  his  saviour's  distress. 
He  deliberately  spit  at  her  with  all  his  puny 
might — whisked  his  tail  across  her  face — bound- 
ed out  of  her  arms,  and  flew  into  the  house  with  a 
sharp  meaul  of  indignation  and  injured  innocence. 

"He  lives  there,"  said  the  child;  "he'll  go 
tip-stairs,  and  Sally'll  let  him  in." 

"Sally  is  one  of  your  playmates,  I  suppose?" 
Elizabeth  said,  wanting  to  keep  the  child's  atten- 
tion occupied,  for  she  had  taken  the  injured  hand 
in  hers,  and  on  wiping  away  the  blood  perceived 
that  there  were  two  or  three  bits  of  glass  to  be 
got  out  of  the  fingers. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  the  child  answered.  "Only 
we  don't  play,  'cause  Sally's  lame,  and  walks 
with  a  crutch." 

"Poor  Sally!  that  is  very  hard,  isn't  it?" 

"  Oh,  she  was  born  so — she  don't  mind,"  was 
the  philosophical  answer.  "  Oh  my  ! — see  here ! 
— you  hurt!" 

"  It  is  all  over  now.  I  will  do  your  hand  up 
in  my  handkerchief.  Is  there  a  chemist's  near 
here — a  drug-shop,  you  know  ?" 


128 


MR.  VAUGIIAN'S  HEIR. 


.  "  Oh,  yes,  just  round  the  corner." 

"  Then  we'll  go  there  and  get  some  plaster  for 
the  cut.  Does  it  hurt  now  ?" 

"Not  much,"  replied  the  small  maid.  "Why, 
you're  awfully  good,  ain't  you  ?" 

Elizaheth  put  the  hat  on  the  child's  head,  and 
they  walked  toward  the  shop.  There  was  no- 
body in  but  a  long-legged,  watery-eyed  boy,  and 
he  took  a  great  while  to  find  the  plaster — one  of 
those  abortive-looking  creatures  of  whom  you 
would  prophesy  that  he  would  all  his  life  be  be- 
hindhand with  whatever  he  might  undertake. 

"Oh,  dear  me,  ain't  I  a  sight?"  Elizabeth 
heard  the  child  sigh.  "It's  awful  to  be  so 
messed,  and  Mrs.  Baines  hasn't  got  a  scrap  more 
liniment — not  a  scrap." 

"Perhaps  we  can  buy  some  here,"  suggested 
Elizabeth.  ' '  What  is  it  for  ?"  ' 

"Rheumatism  in  the  left  arm,"  replied  the 
child  promptly.  "But  you  couldn't  buy  it  any 
where — it's  stuff  Mrs.  Baines  makes  herself,  and 
it's  all  roots  and  herbs,  'cause  she  used  to  live 
in  the  country,  and  knows  how ;  but  Aunt  Jean 
don't,  and  nobody  else,  I  s'pose,  though  Aunt 
Jean  once  lived  in  the  country  too,  but  that  was 
ever  so  long  ago,  in  Scotland." 

During  the  progress  of  these  confidences,  Eliz- 
cbeth  cleansed  the  blue  dress  as  well  as  she  could 
by  rubbing  it  with  some  paper,  while  the  watery- 
eyed  boy  peered  at  them  over  his  shoulder,  and 
quite  forgot  the  plaster  he  had  been  sent  to  find. 
Elizabeth  went  to  the  case  herself,  discovered 
what  was  wanted,  and  soon  had  the  child's 
wounded  fingers  neatly  bound  up. 

"That's  better  now,  isn't  it?"  she  asked,  with 
her  slow,  beautiful  smile,  that  never  failed  to 
carry  comfort  to  the  sick  or  suffering. 

"Oh,  it's  well  enough,  thank  you,"  Was  the 
'answer;  "anyhow  it's  my  left  hand,  so  I  can 
stuff  all  the  same,  and  Aunt  Jean's  got  a  lot 
ready  for  me." 

"  What  ?"  Elizabeth  inquired,  somewhat  mys- 
tified. 

"  Dolls ;  she  makes  the  kid  parts,  and  I  stuff 
'em,  and  then  she  sews  the  legs  and  heads  on." 

"So  you  have  dolls  enough  to  play  with?" 
Elizabeth  said. 

The  bright  eyes  gave  her  a  rather  contemptu- 
ous glance. 

"It's  all  foolishness,"  she  said;  "I've  seen 
too  many  of  them  made  ;  but  Sally  Baines's  got 
a  woolen  rabbit  with  a  squeak  in  it — that  ain't 
so  bad.  She  likes  dolls  though.  Aunt  Jean 
made  her  one  once  out  of  a  broken-headed  one 
that  wouldn't  sell,  and  so  she  wears  a  cap ;  but 
Sally  don't  mind." 

By  this  time  Elizabeth  had  paid  for  the  plas- 
ter, and  was  ready  to  go. 

"There  is  a  shop  up  toward  Broadway  where 
they  have  something  that  is  good  for  rheuma- 
ti.m,"  she  said;  "if  you  like  to  go  there  with 
me,  I  will  buy  a  bottle  for  Aunt  Jean. " 


The  little  face  grew  troubled. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said;  "Aunt  Jean  sent 
the  money  to  pay  Mrs.  Eaines,  and  I  haven't 
got  any  more." 

"But  I  mean  to  get  it  myself,  you  see." 

"I'm  afraid  Aunt  Jean  would  send  it  back," 
returned  the  mite,  still  shaking  her  head.  "  She 
never  takes  any  thing  she  don't  pay  for,  and  I 
don't  know  as  she's  got  any  more  money  to-day ; 
and  you  don't  play  with  dolls,  'tain't  likely." 

"But  I  know  some  children  that  I  buy  dolls 
for  sometimes,"  Elizabeth  said.  "If  you  like, 
I  will  go  with  you  and  tell  Aunt  Jean  how  it  all 
happened.  Do  you  live  far  from  here  ?" 

The  little  creature  interested  her,  and  she 
wanted  to  see  the  place  where  she  lived,  and  the 
woman  who  had  charge  of  her. 

"No,  not  far;  it's  in  Minolta  Lane,"  the 
child  said,  still  hesitating. 

"  Shall  I  go  with  you  ?" 

"I — I  don't  know.  See  here  —  you  ain't  a 
deestrict,  are  you  ?" 

"I  don't  believe  I  am,"  Elizabeth  said,  laugh- 
ing. "What  is  it?" 

"That's  what  Aunt  Jean  calls  'em — she's 
Scotch,  you  know ;  and  there's  another  word — •" 

"Oh,  yes — a  district  visitor ?" 

"That's  it;  and  how  she  does  hate  'em! 
They  don't  come  much  now,  'cause  she  told  two 
or  three  that  she  had  her  Bible,  and  the  tracts 
were  no  good — not  even  to  stuff  dolls,  though 
she  did  cut  some  up  to  fill  a  pillow,  and  I  sleep 
on  it." 

"I  am  not  a  district  visitor.  Aunt  Jean  can 
be  sure  of  that,"  replied  Elizabeth. 

"I  didn't  think  you  looked  like  one,"  said 
miss,  with  a  smile  of  approval ;  "  and  I  like 
your  bonnet ;  they  do  wear  such  dreadful  ones. 
And  I  expect  Aunt  Jean  would  be  glad  of  thr 
liniment,  for  she  said  her  rheumatism  was  bad 
enough  ;  but  she'll  want  to  pay." 

Erom  the  chemist's  they  passed  down  Bleecker 
Street  to  the  narrow,  crooked  by-way,  which  was 
in  old  days  the  channel  of  a  brook  that  still  gives 
its  name  to  the  lane.  The  dwellings  were  clean 
and  decent,  and  the  house  at  which  they  stopped 
one  of  the  most  comfortable. 

"I  live  here,"  said  the  child.  "  I  don't  think 
the  stairs  are  very  steep." 

They  went  up  two  flights,  and  Elizabeth's  con- 
ductress knocked  at  a  door,  which  was  opened 
by  an  elderly  woman,  holding  in  her  hand  a  half- 
finished  doll.  She  dropped  a  civil  courtesy,  but 
seemed  ill  pleased  at  the  sight  of  a  stranger. 
Evidently  her  first  thought  was  that  another  rest- 
less seeker  after  good  works  had  come,  prepared 
to  show,  by  manner  and  words,  that  she  supposed 
herself  visiting  a  heathen. 

"  It's  the  lady  that  tied  up  my  hand,"  the  child 
burst  out  volubly ;  "  and  how  it  did  bleed !  But 
oh,  I've  broken  the  bottle,  Aunt  Jean,  and  I'm 
ever  so  sorry !  But  she  bought  some  liniment, 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


120 


though  I  said  you  always  paid,  and  it  was  Mo- 
ses's running  out  after  me  that  did  it,  and  my 
dress  is  spoiled. " 

She  began  to  sob.  The  woman  tapped  her 
head  with  the  doll's  one  leg,  but  not  unkindly, 
and  said — 

"Don't  cry,  Megsie — spilt  milk,  ye  ken!" 
She  dropped  Elizabeth  another  courtesy,  a  little 
less  stiff,  and  added,  "I'm  obliged  to  you, 
ma'am,  for  your  trouble.  It's  na'  much  o'  a 
place  to  rest  in,  but  if  you  feel  to  tak'  a  chair 
after  climbin'  the  stair — " 

The  invitation  was  given  in  a  doubtful  tone, 
and  scarcely  came  to  a  legitimate  conclusion, 
still  Elizabeth  accepted  it.  Aunt  Jean  led  the 
way  through  a  dark  passage  into  a  moderate- 
sized  chamber,  which  served  as  parlor  and  bed- 
room, but  was  scrupulously  clean.  A  table  stood 
near  the  window,  covered  with  dolls  in  different 
stages  of  development — a  rose-bush  in  a  pot  on 
the  window-sill.  The  woman  herself  looked 
delicate  and  ailing ;  but,  though  the  eyes  were 
keen  and  the  lips  compressed,  it  was  not  a  hard 
face.  Elizabeth  felt  sure  that  Meg  had  a  far 
from  unhappy  home.  Poverty  was  visible  every 
where ;  but  poverty  ^n  its  better  aspect,  which 
struggles  and  works,  and  will  so  struggle  to  the 
end.  Elizabeth  knew  the  signs.  This  was  a 
person  who  would  starve  rather  than  descend  to 
beggary — just  one  of  those  cases  it  is  a  pleasure 
to  assist,  and  yet  difficult.  An  offer  of  money  to 
that  resolute  old  body  would  have  been  an  in- 
sult— no  penny  had  ever  found  its  way  into  her 
dwelling  which  had  not  been  honestly  earned. 

Elizabeth  seated  herself  in  the  wooden  rocking- 
ciiair  the  woman  drew  forward,  and  related  in  a 
few  words  her  meeting  with  the  child  ;  praising 
her  courage,  which  had  brought  about  the  acci- 
dent, and  the  fortitude  with  which  she  had  borne 
her  hurt,  while  Meg  stood  behind  her  chair  and 
dolefully  regarded  her  dress — at  leisure  now  to 
indulge  a  purely  feminine  distress  over  the  ruin 
which  had  befallen  it. 

"  She  told  me  you  suffered  from  rheumatism," 
Elizabeth  added,  "and  I  ventured  to  bring  you 
this  liniment.  I  thought  possibly  you  had  never 
heard  of  it,  and  I  know  that  it  is  an  excellent 
remedy. " 

Aunt  Jean's  gray  eyes  softened,  and  she  smiled. 
"  I  thank  you  hearty,"  she  said,  taking  the  little 
bottle  Elizabeth  held  toward  her.  "I  hope  I 
didn't  seem  rude  when  I  first  saw  ye :  I'd  ask 
ye  to  excuse  it  if  I  did.  I'm  always  thinkin' 
ony  stranger  is  ane  o'  the  deestrict  visitors,  and  I 
canna  bide  'em,  and  that's  the  truth.  And  I 
dinna  like  tracts,  and  I  dinna  like  my  floor  mud- 
died, and  I  dinna  like  to  be  speered  at  for  a 
heathen  or  a  beggar !" 

"And  I  shouldn't  like  it  either," replied  Eliz- 
abeth ;  "nor  should  I  have  taken  the  liberty  to 
come,  only  I  did  not  wish  to  leave  the  little  girl 
after  I  saw  that  she  was  hurt." 


She  smiled,  and  the  woman  smiled  in  return  : 
her  obstinate  old  heart  was  fairly  won. 

"  Dinna  talk  o'  liberty  to  such  as  me,"  she 
answered,  ' '  nae  mair  than  the  sunshine  wad ; 
it  does  me  mair  good  to  see  your  face  and  be 
spoken  to  that  gait  than  a  quart  o'  liniment ! 
Megsie,  go  into  the  closet  and  tak'  off  your  dress. 
I'll  warrant  we'll  get  those  stains  out ;  so  dinna 
fash  yersel',  my  woman." 

"She  is  your  niece?"  Elizabeth  said,  as  the 
door  closed  behind  the  child. 

"She's  nae  kith  or  kin,"  replied  Aunt  Jean, 
shaking  her  head;  "but  I  feel  as  if  she  were. 
She's  been  with  me  ever  since  she  was  a  baby, 
and  she's  like  to  stay  now." 

"  She  has  no  father  or  mother,  then  ?" 

"  She  may  have  baith,  or  neither ;  I  don't 
know  for  sure,  and  she  knows  nathing,  and  it's 
better  she  never  should.  Ye  understand  ?" 

The  child's  little  history  was  easy  to  compre- 
hend from  these  few  words.  Evidently  a  com- 
mon enough  one ;  but  out  of  the  common  was 
the  fact  that  the  poor,  nameless  waif  should  have 
found  proto  :-tion  and  kindness  like  these. 

"What  do  you  call  her?"  Elizabeth  asked, 
not  liking  to  question  a  syllable  beyond  the  ac- 
count the  woman  might  choose  to  give. 

"  Her  true  name  wad  be  Marguerite." 

"  That  is  French." 

"Like  eneugh;.it  was  her  mother's  before 
her,  when  she  had  a  name,  puir  soul,"  mur- 
mured the  woman. 

"  How  old  is  she  ?"  inquired  Elizabeth. 

"Oh,  shell  be  a  bit  past  eight  now,  though 
she  does  na'  look  it." 

Just  then  Meg  came  out  of  the  closet  in  her 
ordinary  dress,  and  seated  herself  on  a  stool  by 
the  window. 

"  Now  I'm  ready  to  stuff,  Aunt  Jean,"  she 
said.  "I've  wasted  a  lot  of  time,  haven't  I ?" 

"We'll  let  the  stuffin'  bide  the  day,"  replied 
her  protectress.  ' '  It's  like  your  wee  fingers  '11 
be  stiff.  Ye  may  gae  up  to  the  auld  fiddler 
body,  if  you're  likin'." 

Meg  disliked  to  lose  sight  of  the  beautiful 
lady,  but  the  temptation  to  listen  to  the  violin- 
ist's music  was  irresislible,  and  she  rose  at  once, 
though  she  looked  rather  wistfully  at  the  vis- 
itor. 

"Aunt  Jean  will  call  you  before  I  go,"  Eliz- 
abeth said,  understanding  her  thought  out  of 
that  great  sympathy  she  always  had  with  chil- 
dren. ' '  I  am  going  to  sit  here  awhile,  if  she  will 
let  me." 

"Megsie,"  cried  the  old  woman,  "the  rose- 
bush 'ull  blossom  after  this ;  mind  that !" 

And  Elizabeth  thought  in  her  life  she  had 
never  received  a  prettier  compliment. 

Meg  went  out  of  the  room,  and  left  Aunt  Jean 
and  her  guest  together. 

"And  yon  have  taken  care  of  the  child — 
worked  for  her  and  supported  her  as  if  she  were 


130 

your  own  ?"  Elizabeth  said.  "  I  think  you  must 
be  a  very  good  woman." 

"  Eh,  the  bit  she  eats  is  na'  much ;  and  she's 
help  to  me  now,"  was  the  cheerful  answer. 

"  You  will  not  be  offended  at  what  I  want  to 


MK.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


say  ?"  Elizabeth  continued. 

"Dear  heart!"  exclaimed  the  other; 


;  that 


voice  could  na'  say  any  thing  it  would  na'  be  a 
pleasure  to  hear." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that,  Mrs. — 

"  Murray  —  Jean  Murray,"  supplied  the  wom- 
an. "It  hae  been  my  name  aboon  forty  years ; 
but  it's  nigh  half  that  time  since  I  lost  the  gude- 
man  ;  he  died  in  Scotland.  Then  I  cam'  across 
the  water,  and  I've  na'  fared  ill,  first  and  last." 

"Will  you  tell  me  something  about  Meg?" 
asked  Elizabeth,  gently. 

"I'm  drawn  to,"  returned  the  woman  ;  "  that 
was  why  I  sent  her  out.  Odd  times  I  think  I'm 
growing  auld,  and  nae  that  strong  I  was ;  and 
on'y  this  morn  I  was  wondering  o'er  it,  and  when 
you  cam'  in,  somehow  it  was  just  as  if  something 
said  to  me,  The  Lord  has  found  the  way.  He 
does,  leddy,  in  spite  o'  all  our  frettin',  always 
He  does,  if  on'y  a  body  could  remember  it." 

The  simple  words  of  faith  struck  like  a  prom- 
ise to  Elizabeth's  heart,  which  had  been  so  bit- 
ter during  these  past  days.  She  was  gkd,  too, 
of  any  thing  that  took  her  out  of  herself — gave  a 
hope  of  being  of  use  to  any  human  being,  in  how- 
ever small  a  way. 

"I  never  have  talked  to  aye  a  creature  about 
her,"  Mrs.  Murray  was  saying;  "it  was  nae- 
body's  business — the  child  had  me.  But  since 
I  took  the  long  illness,  and  these  weaknesses 
coming  o'er  me — but  who  was  I  to  tell? — na' 
the  Visitors  ;  my  certy,  no  !" 

"I  should  like  to  help  where  the  child  is  con- 
cerned, if  you  will  let  me,"  Elizabeth  said.  "I 
am  not  a  philanthropist — " 

"The  vara  word.  I  could  na'  speak  it,"  inter- 
rupted Aunt  Jean,  in  a  parenthesis,  with  a  shiv- 
er of  disgust. 

"  But  I  have  money,  and  I  have  no  children," 
Elizabeth  continued ;  and  the  quick-witted  hear- 
er noticed  how  her  voice  saddened,  but  she  gave 
no  sign.  "  Sometimes  I  find  children  I  can  help, 
can  educate  and  bring  up  to  learn  trades  and  be 
useful.  I  might  assist  you  about  Meg;  she 
ought  to  go  to  school — to — " 

She  stopped,  for  Mrs.  Murray  made  a  quick 
movement,  and  she  was  fearful  of  having  an- 
noyed her.  Elizabeth  had  not  a  particle  of  the 
stuff  in  her  composition  which  helps  to  make  a 
philanthropist  by  profession.  She  was  as  shy  of 
intruding  where  humble  people  were  concerned, 
as  careful  of  hurting  their  independence  or  pride, 
as  if  they  had  been  formed  of  the  delicate  porce- 
lain which  enters  into  the  composition  of  the 
great.  She  was  a  foolish  creature  in  many  ways, 
tliis  Elizabeth. 

"  I;'.-  like  having  a  dream  come  true!"  Mrs. 


Murray  said,  in  a  low,  awe-stricken  tone ;  and  a 
dew  gathered  over  the  sternness  of  her  eyes, 
which  had  ached  under  too  many  troubles  for 
tears  easily  to  dim  them.  "  On'y  the  ither 
night,  when  the  pain  kept  me  awake,  I  lay  think- 
in'  o'  it.  If  on'y  there  were  somebody  able  to  do 
it,  and  with  a  kind  heart — if  I  should  be  taken  ! 
And  now  you  come — oh,  leddy,  ye  maun  hae  been 
sent — I'd  been  a  wicked  woman  na'  to  let  ye 
do  what  He  puts  in  your  mind  ;  and  He's  show- 
ed the  way,  too. " 

"I  must  think  what  it  would  be  best  to  do," 
Elizabeth  said. 

"  It's  not  now  that  help  is  needed — dinna  go 
believing  that,"  returned  Aunt  Jean,  eagerly. 
"I'm  able  to  work,  and  she  pays  for  her  keep. 
She  has  been  to  school,  too — there  are  plenty, 
gude  and  free,  and  I  manage  to  dress  her  decent 
for  that.  It's  if  ony  thing  happened  to  me." 

"I  shall  not  forget,"  Elizabeth  said.  "But 
there  is  no  reason  why  all  the  care  of  her  should 
come  on  you.  It  is  only  right  that  you  should 
be  paid  something  for  her  board  when  she  goes 
to  school,  and  not  have  the  expense  of  clothing 
her." 

"I  could  na'  tak'  it,  m$'am!  Forgie  me — I 
canna  pit  it  in  the  right  language — but  it  wad 
be  like  sellin'my  hairt,  somehow,"  Mrs.  Murray 
replied.  "  The  claes  and  welcome,  because  of 
her  not  then  having  call  to  feel  ashamed  amang 
the  ither  bairns." 

Elizabeth  did  not  urge  the  matter.  After  a 
moment,  Aunt  Jean  added,  with  a  shrewd  smile — 

"Ma'am,  I  beg  your  pardon!  But  hae  ye 
thocht  how  ye're  takin'  me  on  trust  ?" 

"I  am  not  afraid  to  do  that,  Mrs.  Murray." 

"And  ye're  ane  to  gae  straight  to  the  hairt 
an'  motives — ye'd  be  guided !" 

Elizabeth  laid  her  hand  on  the  old  woman's 
for  an  instant. 

"Now  tell  me  about  Meg's  mother,"  she  said. 

"Eh,  it's  awa'  bock,  to  begin  wi'  the  com- 
mencement," said  Mrs.  Murray,  picking  up  her 
glasses  from  the  table,  and  rubbing  \hern  dili- 
gently on  her  apron.  "  Yes — a'maist  ten  year. 
I  got  a  hurt  in  the  street — a'maist  rin  doun  wi' 
an  omnibus  in  Broadway.  The  last  thing  I  mind 
was  a  leddy  in  the  crowd  that  got  aboot  me — the 
grandest-dressed  body — wi'  e'en  like  twa  stars. 
Someway  I  felt  she  could  understand,  and  I 
ca'ed,  '  Na'  to  the  hospital — dinna  tak'  me  to  the 
hospital!'  Then  I  tried  to  gie  me  address,  but  I 
could  na'  speak  anither  word.  And  it  was  her 
ainsel'  answered  me,  '  Ye'll  not  go,  gude  wom- 
an, I'll  promise  thot.'  Then  it  was  a'  mirk, 
and  I  swounded  awa'." 

She  sat  silent  for  some  seconds,  still  polishing 
her  spectacles.  Elizabeth  could  see  that  she  had 
to  struggle  hard  to  retain  her  composure. 

"  I  get  sae  Scotch  when  I'm  a  bit  movet,"  she 
said,  apologetically.  "  Maist  times  I  mind  me- 
sel',  for  I  wad  na'  hae  the  bairn  tak'  my  way.  It 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


131 


seems  right  ye  suld  knaw,  though  it  can  do  nae 
gude,  but  ye'll  understand  what  I'm  always  fear- 
in'  for  the  child — I  could  na'  tell  why." 
Elizabeth  bent  her  head. 

"And  when  you  came  to  your  senses?"  she 
asked. 

"Ah !"  resumed  Mrs.  Murray,  drawing  along 
breath  like  a  sob,  "when  I  cam'  to  I  was  in  a 
braw  chamber,  and  a  doctor  there,  and  the  led- 
dy.  I  was  in  her  house,  she  said,  and  I'd  be 
cared  for."  . 

She  stopped  again. 

"  Were  you  ill  long  ?"  Elizabeth  asked,  to  help 
her,  for  it  was  evident  she  found  the  story  diffi- 
cult to  tell. 

"  Xae,  nae,  I  was  na'  ill — bruised  like.  In  the 
evening  I  could  rise  up.  Dear  ma'am,  I  canna 
bide  to  think  what  I  did !  I  thocht  I  was  vara 
gude  and  virtuous,  a'  the  same  I  was  a  wicked 
Pharisee. " 

"I  am  sure  you  did  not  mean  to  do  wrong," 
Elizabeth  said. 

"I  did  wrang,  though, "answered  the  old  wom- 
an, "as  ony  body  does  when  they  thank  God 
they're  not  so  bad  as  ither  folk.  She  trippit  into 
my  room  wi'  anither  gown  on — she  was  aff  to 
the  opera,  she  said.  She  tauld  me  she'd  need 
o'  an  honest  body  to  be  her  housekeeper  and 
mind  the  maids.  She'd  a  fancy  to  me,  she  said ; 
wad  I  stop  ?  I  was  out  o'  wark  joost  then.  I'd 
been  to  see  a  place  that  vara  day,  and  was  too 
late.  But  that's  nae  matter." 

"  So  you  agreed  to  remain,"  Elizabeth  rejoin- 
ed, eager,  she  could  not  have  told  why,  to  get 
to  the  end  of  the  story. 

"Aye,  that  was  it !  I'll  never  forget  how  beau- 
tiful she  looked,  a'  in  white,  wi'  jewels  in  her 
hair ;  but  her  eyes  were  brighter  still — the  child's 
'mind  me  o'  them,  odd  times.  Eh  sirs,  she  was 
na'  muckle  mair  her  ainsel' ;  she'd  na'  hae  been 
ower  nineteen,  puir  soul!"  » 

"Poor  soul!''  repeated  Elizabeth,  pityingly. 

"Yes.  I've  telled  eneugh  ;  ye  can  speer  the 
rest.  When  she'd  gane,  I  sleepit  a  bit.  Wakin' 
again,  her  servant  came  till  mo,  and  we'd  a  lang 
crack  aboot  it  a'.  Then  the  jade  let  it  oot  that 
the  bonnie  lass  lived  wi'  a  nion  wha  was  na'  her 
husband,  and  she  skirled  awa'  and  telled  me  how 
she  garred  her  mistress  pay  a  double  wage  be- 
cause o'  her  ain  character. 

"Then  Mileddy,  as  she  ca'ed  her,  cam'  hame 
wi'  a  troop  o'  freends,  and  the  hizzie  said  there'd 
be  supper  and  dancin'  and  mad  doins  till  day- 
break. So  off  she  rin,  for  the  leddy  had  come 
up  the  stair  and  was  ringin'  her  bell.  I  could  na' 
to  say  walk,  but  I  could  mak'  shift  to  win  alang, 
and  I'd  hae  creepit  on  hands  and  knees  to  be 
free  the  hoose.  I  did  na'  reflect  that  whatever 
she  might  be  she'd  been  gude  to  me,  and  that  it 
was  na'  for  the  like  o'  me  to  judge  her.  Silly  doit- 
ed auld  carle,  I  thocht  it  a  fine  Chreestian  thing 
to  bear  my  testimony,  as  I  ca'ed  it,  against  sin  !" 


She  mechanically  took  some  bits  of  kid  from 
the  table,  and  tried  to  work,  but  laid  them  quick- 
ly down,  put  her  glasses  off  and  on  several  times, 
while  her  features  quivered  as  if  she  were  crying, 
though  she  shed  no  tears. 

"You  believed  you  were  doing  right,"  Eliza- 
beth said,  longing  to  comfort  her. 

"  Eh,  dear  leddy,  I  did  na'  stop  to  think,  I  was 
that  full  o'  mysel',  ye  ken.  Aweel,  I  got  out  o' 
my  chair  and  searched  my  claes,  and  though 
sair  stiff  and  lame,  I  could  hirple  alang.  As  I 
stepped  doon  the  passage,  oot  shot  the  maid  in 
a  great  takiu'  to  know  my  wull,  and  then  cam' 
the  leddy  too. 

"  '  What  do  you  want?'  she  says,  kindly  like. 

"  '  Let  me  gang  oot  o'  this,'  says  I.  '  For  the 
gude  ye've  done  me  ye  hae  my  thanks,  but  I'd 
BO  hae  tuk  it  an'  I'd  knawn.  I'm  an  honest 
woman,  and  I  tell  ye  the  "wages  o'  sin  is  deeth !'' ' 

"  She  sank  bock  to  the  wa',  like  as  I'd  struck 
her,  and  went  white  i'  the  face.  In  a  bit  minute 
she  began  laughing,  but  not  hearty— just  reckless 
like.  '  Let  ner  go,'  she  says, '  that's  the  thanks 
one  gets  for  helping  these  Chreestians. '  I  got 
doun  the  stair  and  out  intil  the  night.  As  I 
was  ga'en  by  the  perlor-door  I  heard  skirlin'  an' 
singin',  an'  I  felt  like  Lot  a  fleein'  from  Sodom ; 
an'  aiblins  I  was  wickeder  than  she  I  condemned. " 

Mrs.  Murray  sat  silent  for  a  time.  Her  eyes 
were  closed ;  her  lips  moved  slowly.  Elizabeth 
knew  that  she  was  praying.  She  looked  up  at 
last,  and  went  on  slowly — 

"I  hae  made  it  a  lang  story,  but  there's  little 
mair.  I  was  awa'  to  Kew  Orleans;  I'd  gaen 
there  wi'  a  sick  leddy.  She  died  sune.  What 
wi'  wark  frae  shops  an'  two  bit  bairnies  to  mind, 
I  was  fairin'  weel.  I'd  took  some  wark  hame, 
and  was  hastenin'  bock,  for  I'd  asked  a  neebor 
to  sit  wi'  the  weans,  fearin'  they'd  wake  while  I 
was  gane.  The  night  was  mirk,  and  the  wind 
howled,  and  the  big  river  a  roarin'  like  the  sea. 
The  rain  cam'  pourin',  an'  I  rin  wi'  a'  my  might 
till  I  saw  a  woman  crouched  in  a  corner,  sair 
droukit,  puir  thing !  an'  holdin'  a  bundle  in  her 
arms.  It  was  a  bairn.  It  began  cryin'  as  I  rin 
past.  I  stoppit — the  mother  not  hearin' — in  a 
dream  like.  I  caught  a  glint  at  her  face — ou, 
it  was  Mileddy !" 

"Did  she  recognize  you?" 

"Just  at  my  voice  she  loupit  up  wi'  a  skreigh 
I  can  hear  yet,  an'  the  first  words  she  said  were 
the  haird  anes  I  spoke  when  I  rin  awa'  oot  o' 
her  hoose.  '  The  wages  o'  sin  is  deeth,'  says 
she ;  '  the  wages  o'  sin  is  deeth ;  ye  tauld  me 
sae!'  Weel,  weel,  I  took  her  to  my  own  bit 
place ;  it  was  ane  body's  wark  to  get  her  there, 
for  she'd  meant  to  droon  hersel'.  Happen  it  was 
nae  a  kindness  to  keep  her  here,  wicked  as  it 
sounds,  but  I  did  it" 

"She  would  not  stay  with  you?" 

"  She  bided  the  night  and  the  next  day ;  she 
was  reicht  dour  and  silent ;  waur  than  that — 


132 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


half-mad  like.  The  mon  had  flung  her  aff  and 
gaed  his  gate  ;  she  telled  me  sae  much.  She'd 
come  to  New  Orleans  \vi'  him ;  her  wean  was 
born  there.  Oh,  ma'am,  he  left  her,  an'  he  took 
anither  lass  wi'  him  when  he  went,  an'  she  was 
knowin'  to  it." 

"It  is  too  dreadful!"  shivered  Elizabeth. 
"Tell  me  what  you  did— what  became  of  her." 
"  Waur  than  the  deeth  she  was  seekin' — wanr 
than  the  black,  black  water  she  meant  to  hide 
her  trouble  under,"  groaned  the  old  woman.  "1 
took  her  to  my  airms,  and  begged  her  to  let  me 
help  her  an'  the  bairnie,  in  token  she  forgave  my 
haird  words.  The  bit  babbie  was  in  a  bad  way. 
She'd  no  milk  fur  it,  and  it  was  nigh  stairved. 
The  night,  when  I  thocht  the  puir  body  was 
sleepin'  at  last,  I  dozed  aff,  wi'  the  bairn  beside 
me.  She  cam'  and  stood  by  my  bedside,  beg- 
gin'  an'  prayin'  me  to  keep  an'  care  for  the  wean. 
I  thocht  her  daft,  an'  had  a  muckle  wark  to  com- 
fort her  wi'  promisin'  all  she  asked.  Then  she 
quieted,  an'  lay  douu  again,  askin'  me  to  pit  the 
babbie  by  her.  I  was  sair  worn  mysel',  and  slept 
sound  till  the  morn's  mornin',  an'  the  baimie 
woke  me  wi'  its  skirlin'.  Dear  leddy,  it  was 
broad  day,  and  she'd  gaed  her  lane  to  due  pen- 
ance for  her  sin." 

"  But  you  heard  from  her  afterward  ?" 

"  It  was  lang  fir^t — na'  ti'  I  was  hame  here. 
When  we  were  talkin',  she  asked  an  address  that 
wad  always  reach  me,  an'  I  gied  her  one,  though 
I  was  mindin'  the  babbie,  and  did  na'  think  o'  her 
meanin*  at  the  time.  But  I  got  a  bit  scrape  o' 
the  pen  an'  a  hantle  o'  money — no  news  o'  her- 
sel',  but  just  the  money ;  it  cam'  a  matter  o' 
three  times  —  plenty  too;  checks  frae  a  San 
Francisco  bank.  I  was  to  write  to  a  man  there 
how  the  child  fared  ;  an'  I  did." 

"  But  that  is  a  good  while  ago  ?" 

"Aye!  The  last  news  that  cam'  to  me  was 
through  an  English  sailor  I  knew — just  chance. 
He  was  here,  an'  when  he  saw  Megsie  he  was 
that  scairt  he  tauld  n:e  the  story.  As  ye  may 
think,  I  did  na'  let  out  that  the  bairn  was  nane  o' 
me  or  mine.  It  was  a  story  about  a  drunken 
frolic  he  had  in  San  Francisco.  A  parcel  o'  men 
robbed  him  at  a  drinkin'  an'  gamblin*  place  kept 
by  a  woman  they  ca'ed  Mileddy.  I'd  hae  known 
her  wi'out  the  name,  just  by  his  account  o'  her 
looks.  Eh,  dear  ma'am,  she'd  gaed  from  bad  to 
waur.  He  telled  how  she  was  mair  like  a  fiend 
than  n  woman,  on'y  sae  beautiful  through  it  a', 
and  gangin' always  doun,  dotin  !" 

Kliz;ibeth  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hand. 
Aunt  Jean's  simple  words  made  the  picture  so 
terribly  clear  that  it  was  unbearable. 

"That  was  the  last  I  ever  heerd,"  pursued 
Mrs.  Murray;  "four  year  an'  mair.  It's  like 
she's  dead  lang  syne  ;  it's  the  best  to  hope. 
<  >ny  way,  she'd  be  in  God's  hands,  an'  after  a' 
thiit's  come  an'  gaen,  He  might  judge  her  as  mon 
could  na'  do." 


"  And  through  His  goodness  you  were^illowed 
to  save  the  child, "  Elizabeth  said. 

"Eh,  dear  ma'ara,  in  ane  way  or  anither  He 
warks  to  bring  gude  out  o'  a'  the  wrang  and  sin, 
in  His  ain  way  an'  His  ain  time.  Whiles  it's 
haird  to  believe,  but  He  does  it." 

The  touching  words  from  the  old  Scripture 
narrative  rose  involuntary  to  Elizabeth's  lips. 
She  did  not  speak  aloud,  but  in  her  heart  she 
cried,  "Lord,  help  thou  mine  unbelief!" 

"It's  muckle  the  bairn  need  never  ken,"  Mrs. 
Murray  was  saying.  "The  money's  a'  pit  by. 
I  could  na'  use  it — I  could  na' !" 

"You  are  a  good,  good  woman!"  Elizabeth 
said;  and  Mrs.  Murray  only  looked  at  her  in 
mild  wonder. 

What  made  up  a  complete  life?  Elizabeth 
was  thinking.  Perhaps  in  the  sphere  beyond 
this  the  patient  sacrifice  of  this  lowly  woman, 
the  tender  caring  for  this  helpless  waif  and  stray, 
should  count  for  more  than  all  the  grand  achieve- 
ments, the  far-reaching  plans  for  human  ad- 
vancement, which  had  been  the  dream  of  her 
own  visionary  youth,  even  had  she  been  able  to 
carry  them  out  in  their  fullness. 

"I've  always  kept  some  bit  trifles  that  I 
found,"  Mrs.  Murray  said  presently.  "They 
must  have  droppit  out  o'  a  bundle  she  had,  wi'out 
her  knowin'  it." 

She  went  to  a  trunk  that  stood  in  a  dark  cor- 
ner, and  unlocked  it  with  a  key  she  took  from 
her  pocket.  She  came  back  to  the  table,  and 
set  a  small  box  down  upon  it. 

"I've  aye  kept  them  in  this,"  she  said; 
"they're  naught,  but  I  could  na'  bear  not  to  treat 
them  carefully.  Whiles  I've  fancied  always  they 
were  just  the  first  he'd  given  her  that  she  kept 
after  sellin'  the  rest,  for  he'd  treated  her  so  ill — 
a  woman  is  aye  a  woman,  ye  ken." 

She  lifted  a  coral  necklace  of  no  great  value — 
a  simple  ring-^some  withered  flowers — a  book. 
One  could  fancy,  as  the  good  woman  said,  that 
these  trifles  had  each  possessed  a  history.  Per- 
haps the  coral  was  the  first  gift  of  the  man  to  his 
victim — the  flowers  might  have  been  gathered 
some  day  the  two  had  spent  in  the  country. 

"An'  this,"  Mrs.  Murray  said,  holding  up  a 
silver  cross,  with  a  horrified  look — "  a  crucifecx ! 
The  puir  lass  pit  it  roond  the  bairn's  neck  her- 
sel' — she's  aye  worn  it  till  the  ither  day  the  ring 
broke.  I  had  it  mendit,  and  she's  na'  asked  it 
yet — I've  na'  the  hairt  to  keep  it  frae  her.  Meg 
kens  naething  aboot  its  bein'  a  heathenish  em- 
bleem,  and  I  hae  warned  her  ne'er  to  show  it. 
And  the  book — it's  Freench,  I'm  thinkin'.  I 
hae  na'  looked  at  the  things  in  years,  till  I  pit  the 
crucifeex  here — they're  awfu'  to  me — awfif !" 

She  held  the  book  toward  Elizabeth.  It  had 
been  richly  bound,  but  was  worn  and  tarnished. 
There  were  stains  on  the  cover — perhaps  the 
trace  of  tears — who  should  say  ? 

Elizabeth  mechanically  opened  the  volume — 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


133 


it  was  a  collection  of  Alfred  de  Mussel's  passion- 
ate lyrics.  On  the  fly-leaf  was  carelessly  written 
the  one  word — "Milady."  Here  and  there  on 
the  pages  other  pencil-marks  were  visible — pas- 
sages underscored — in  certain  places  a  date  scrib- 
bled. To  an  imaginative  person  the  book  con- 
tained a  complete  history. 

"I'd  na'  seen  the  writin',"  Mrs.  Murray  said, 
looking  over  Elizabeth's  shoulder.  "  I  just  saw 
it  was  a  foreign  tongue — Freench  belike ;  and 
that  aye  seems  wickedness.  It  wad  be  in  verse, 
I'm  thinkin'.'' 

"Yes, "Elizabeth  answered,  and  still  absently 
turned  the  leaves  whose  few  pencil  records  seem- 
ed to  make  plain  to  her  the  black  tragedy  which, 
like  so  many  another,  had  passed  under  the 
world's  eyes  without  the  world's  heeding. 

Mrs.  Murray  began  collecting  the  finished 
dolls,  and  putting  them  in  a  basket  ready  to  be 
carried  to  the  shop.  She  had  gone  to  the  other 
end  of  the  room.  Elizabeth  still  lingered  over 
the  pages,  which  possessed  a  painful  fascination 
she  could  not  dispel. 

Toward  the  middle  of  the  volume  she  came 
upon  a  page  that  had  a  couple  of  lines  written 
on  the  inner  edge ;  they  were  partially  effaced 
by  flourishes  and  careless  marks,  as  if  some  per- 
son had  done  it  absently  while  reading.  She 
moved  close  to  the  window  to  see  more  clearly. 
It  was  an  extract  from  the  poem  that  had  been 
written  in  a  man's  hand — then  came  again  the 
name  "Milady" — then  another  name — not  dis- 
tinct at  first,  but  as  Elizabeth  stared  at  it,  the 
words  seemed  to  grow  till  they  rose  like  gigantic 
characters  before  her  horrified  eyes. 

The  name  was  Darrell  Vaughan,  and  the  writ- 
ing her  husband's !  It  was  a  habit  of  his  as 
he  read  to  scribble  absently  on  the  margin  of  a 
page. 

She  felt  dizzy  and  faint  at  this  fresh  proof  of 
the  vileness  of  the  man  to  whom  her  life  was 
bound,  but  the  shock  did  not  come  with  the  vi- 
olence it  might  have  done  to  most  wives.  She 
had  grown  accustomed  to  proofs  of  his  baseness 
—month  by  month,  week  by  week,  some  new 
evidence  was  forced  upon  her.  She  tore  the  page 
from  the  book,  and  hid  it  in  her  dress — at  least 
it  must  not  be  left  for  any  other  eye  to  discover. 
She  caught  sight  of  her  face  in  the  little  mirror ; 
she  was  startled  at  its  stern  coldness.  In  the 
midst  of  her  weakness  and  trouble  she  was  con- 
scions  of  wondering  could  it  be  the  same  face  that 
used  to  meet  hers  in  the  glass? — the  face  that 
was  once  eager  with  bright  dreams,  out  of  which, 
young  and  fair  as  it  still  was,  every  trace  of  hope 
had  worn  away  ? 

She  drew  her  veil  down,  and  turned  toward 
Mrs.  Murray. 

"I  must  go  now,"  she  said.  "I  have  stayed 
a  long  time.  I  will  come  again  soon  ;  I  shall  not 
forget." 

She  was  out  in  the  air,  hurrying  through  the 


streets  toward  her  home.  One  reflection  came 
suddenly  up,  and  brought  a  sort  of  comfort  with 
it.  At  least  she  might  make  it  her  care  that  the 
future  of  this  nameless  child  should  be  peaceful — 
kept  far  away  from  harm  or  evil. 

Her  husband's  daughter,  and  she  was  child- 
less !  He  had  often  reproached  her  with  it,  and 
sometimes  she  had  grieved  because  the  sweet  bless- 
ing of  maternity  was  denied  her.  She  thanked 
God  heartily  now  for  the  want  which  had  help- 
ed to  make  her  life  solitary  and  gray. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

FOR     HIS     OWN     SAKE. 

ELIZABETH  went  back  to  her  desolate  home, 
and  sat  down  in  the  silence.  The  secret  which  she 
had  discovered — which  had  been  thrust  upon  her 
rather — could  not  outwardly  affect  her  life.  This 
was  the  clearest  thought  in  her  mind  after  those 
long  hours  of  meditation — perhaps  the  hardest  of 
all  to  bear.  She  was  married  to  this  man,  and 
neither  human  judgment  nor  human  law  would 
be  on  her  side  if  she  were  to  throw  her  burden 
down  for  a  cause  like  the  present.  She  was  old 
enough,  had  knowledge  enough  of  the  world,  to 
understand  this.  That  page  out  of  the  dark  book 
of  her  husband's  past  was  filled  up  and  put  aside 
before  her  life  touched  his ;  she  had  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  That  would  have  been  the  world's  verdict. 
Even  women — good,  pure  women — would  unhes- 
itatingly say  that  a  young  man's  weaknesses  and 
follies  should  not  be  submitted  to  a  rigid,  piti- 
less examination.  No  young  man's  record  would 
stand  it.  Men  were  exposed  to  temptations  which 
women  could  not  appreciate ;  besides,  they  often 
made  better  husbands  if  during  their  bachelor 
liberty  they  had  gone  through  experiences  "like- 
ly to  teach  them  the  folly  of  such  things. "  Over 
and  over  Elizabeth  had  heard  these  arguments 
from  feminine  lips,  and  had  learned  to  listen  in 
silence.  Her  soul  filled  with  bitterness,  as  many 
another  woman's  has  done,  when  such  theory  and 
practice  were  forced  upon  her  knowledge,  and 
now  it  had  become  a  personal  matter ;  yet  she  was 
bound  hand  and  foot.  Still,  she  was  thinking 
more  of  that  unhappy  creature,  a  glimpse  into 
whoso  history  Mrs.  Murray's  words  had  offered, 
than  of  herself.  Some  wild  idea  rose  in  her 
mind  as  to  the  possibility  of  finding  her  out  if 
she  were  alive — trying  to  help  herk  There  came, 
too,  a  wilder  idea  of  appealing  to  Darrell :  beg- 
ging him  for  his  soul's  sake  to  discover  the 
woman,  and  sav^  her  from  the  final  consequences 
of  misery  and  sin.  It  was  all  she  could  do ;  and 
was  not  this  course  a  plain  duty?  Oh,  that  word! 
Why,  holy  and  beautiful  as  it  had  once  seemed 
to  her,  it  had  grown  the  greatest  stumbling-block 
in  her  path !  She  was  always  bruising  herself 
against  it  at  every  turn,  and  to  her  piteous  cries, 


ME.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


her  eager  questions,  it  returned  no  more  answer 
than  if  it  had  been  a  dumb  heathen  idol,  stand- 
ing up  with  a  smile  of  imbecile  ferocity  amid  the 
ruined  temple  of  her  life. 

What  was  her  duty?  what,  indeed,  was  exist- 
ence for?  what  part  or  place  had  she  in  the 
grand  universal  plan  ?  Her  place !  A  wife,  and 
vet  widowed  —  that  most  terrible  widowhood  of 
the  soul !  A  woman  in  the  fullness  of  her  youth, 
in  the  strength  of  her  powers,  and  no  work  grant- 
ed— not  even  the  sweet  task  of  making  home 
pleasant  to  a  loving  husband. 

Thought  was  too  dreadful,  too  dangerous ;  she 
must  get  away  from  it.  She  could  only  hold 
blindly  to  her  faith,  and  pray  that  it  might  not 
forsake  her. 

The  whole  afternoon  had  gone  unnoticed  ;  the 
shadows  of  evening  were  filling  the  room,  and 
still  she  sat  there,  holding  the  leaf  she  had  torn 
from  that  book,  trying  always  to  see  some  gleam 
of  light,  some  means,  at  least,  of  aiding  her  sis- 
ter woman,  of  urging  upon  Vaughan  the  need 
of  going  back  over  that  disregarded,  perhaps  for- 
gotten episode,  and  trying  if  atonement  were 
possible. 

Disregarded !  —  forgotten !  this  seemed  the 
strangest,  the  most  unnatural  part  of  the  whole 
matter.  Could  he  have  forgotten?  Could  he 
be  so  utterly  callous  and  hardened  that  not  even 
a  memory  remained— not  a  pang  of  remorse  ? 

Suddenly  she  heard  her  husband's  voice  in  the 
hall  addressing  one  of  the  servants.  He  had 
come  back  without  warning,  as  his  habit  was. 

"  Mrs.  Vanghan  is  in  the  library  ?  Tell  them 
•  to  hurry  dinner,  please.  I  am  hungry  and  tired." 

Then  he  entered ;  she  saw  him  pause  on  the 
threshold,  and  look  about.  His  eyes,  unaccus- 
tomed to  the  dimness,  did  not  at  first  distinguish 
her,  but  she  saw  him  clearly.  She  did  not  rise 
— she  could  not ;  the  paper  that  fluttered  in  her 
trembling  hand  seemed  the  sign  of  a  new  and 
sterner  barrier  between  their  already  widely  sev- 
ered souls. 

"Are  you  here,  Elizabeth?"  he  called, pleas- 
antly enough.  "  What  a  fancy  you  have  for  en- 
joying blind-man's  holiday !" 

He  was  beside  her  now,  holding  out  his  hand. 
"  How  do  you  do — been  well?" 

He  did  not  offer  to  kiss  her.  She  noticed  this, 
confused  and  troubled  as  she  felt ;  noticed  it,  and 
was  glad. 

"  I  did  not  expect  you  to-night,"  she  managed 
to  say,  and  rose,  slowly,  letting  her  fingers  lie  pas- 
sive in  his  clasp. 

"  How  cold  your  hand  is — the  room's  like  a 
furnace,  though — you  stay  shut^ip  too  much," 
were  his  next  words.  Then  he  gave  a  fretful 
little  laugh.  "  Have  you  got  to  the  end  of  your 
welcome  already?"  he  asked. 

' '  I  hope  you  have  been  well.  Were  you  suc- 
cessful in  your  business  ?" 

For  the  life  of  her  she  can  think  of  no  other 


words  !  That  paper  is  still  in  her  hand  ;  she  can 
neither  turn  her  eyes  from  it  nor  hide  the  page, 
though  she  would  like  to  do  one  or  the  other. 

"Yes,  to  both  questions,"  she  hears  him  say. 
Then  he  adds,  "  I  should  think  we  might  as  well 
have  the  good  of  what  little  light  there  is." 

He  goes  to  the  window  near  her  chair,  and 
pulls  back  the  curtain  which  Elizabeth  had  drop- 
ped over  the  casement  when  she  entered  the  room 
hours  before. 

"  Upon  my  word,  this  is  a  cheerful  sort  of  wel- 
come for  a  man  to  receive !"  he  exclaimed,  turn- 
ing toward  her  again.  She  is  still  standing,  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  torn  page.  Dim  as  the  light 
is,  she  can  see  his  name  written  there  ;  the  char- 
acters fairly  burn  before  her  eyes. 

She  is  at  a  loss  what  to  do.  To  leave  the  mat- 
ter without  making  some  appeal  to  him  she  feels 
impossible.  But  whether  it  is  better  to  wait  or 
in  what  words  to  frame  her  explanation  she  can 
not  think. 

"  I  will  hurry  the  dinner,"  is  all  she  does  say ; 
there  is  a  kind  of  relief  in  falling  back  for  an  in- 
stant to  the  safety  of  some  commonplace  house- 
hold matter. 

"  Thanks.  I  told  Martin.  I  dare  say  they 
will  manage.  I  should  be  sorry  to  trouble  you," 
he  replied  with  an  elaborate  civility,  which  be- 
trays his  rising  anger. 

If  she  could  talk — get  that  paper  out  of  sight 
— keep  down  to  the  level  of  ordinary  subjects,  if 
only  for  a  time.  To  let  the  matter  in  her  mind 
come  up  in  a  way  to  cause  contention  or  harsh 
words  would  be  to  add  to  its  loathsomeness. 
There  must  be  no  quarrel ;  he  is  dead  to  her ; 
absolutely  dead !  What  she  must  say,  let  her 
try  to  speak  as  dispassionately  as  if  she  had  been 
set  free  from  this  earthly  bondage,  and  had  come 
back  to  plead  with  him. 

Just  then  he  notices  the  pnpcr  in  her  hand. 
He  is  always  ready  with  suspicions ;  he  never 
fails  to  believe  the  worst  of  any  man  or  woman. 
Some  quick  thought  that  he  has  taken  her  by 
surprise  is  what  goes  through  his  mind.  She  is 
agitated — confused.  Perhaps  he  has  come  near 
some  secret.  Is  it  a  letter? — does  some  feeling 
lie  at  the  bottom  of  her  odd  manner  ? 

' '  What  are  you  holding  ?  what  have  you  got 
there  ?"  he  exclaims,  and  tries  to  draw  the  paper 
from  her. 

"Don't  take  it — don't  touch  it,"  she  replies, 
putting  her  hand  behind  her. 

"I  insist  on  knowing  what  this  means  !  Give 
me  that  letter." 

"It  is  not  a  letter,"  she  says  ;  "  it  is  only  a 
page  out  of  a,  book." 

"A  page  out  of  a  book  !  Then  what  are  you 
hiding  it  for?"  retorts  he.  and  pulls  her  arm 
roughly. 

A  swift,  sudden  indignation  rises  in  Elizabeth's 
soul — a  prouder  creature  never  breathed.  The 
scowling, 'angry  face  confronting  her  does  not 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S   HEIR. 


bring  any  sensation  of  terror  as  it  might  to  a 
weaker  woman. 

"Let  me  go,  if  you  please — this  instant !" 

The  voice  is  very  low,  but  there  is  something 
in  its  tone  which  brings  him  back  to  his  senses 
— something  in  the  haughty  coldness  of  her  face 
which  reminds  him,  as  it  has  done  before,  that 
with  her  no  show  of  threat  or  tyranny  will  serve. 
His  hand  drops  ;  he  retreats  a  step,  and  Eliza- 
beth sinks  wearily  back  into  her  chair. 

She  realizes  that  this  is  no  fitting  moment  to 
bring  up  the  subject  which  has  been  in  her 
mind  during  these  hours  since  her  return  home. 
Months  and  months  ago  she  decided  that  anoth- 
er quarrel  between  them  must  be  fatal.  Strife 
shall  not  come  now ;  certainly  not  in  regard  to 
this  matter  about  which  she  feels  so  strongly  the 
importance  of  acting  aright.  It  may  be  that  his 
soul  and  hers  must  endure  for  a  period,  which  to 
mortal  comprehension  would  seem  endless,  the 
consequences  of  their  action  at  this  crisis. 

Something  of  these  thoughts,  this  resolve,  he 
sees  in  her  face — what  they  mean  he  can  not  of 
course  tell.  So  often  he  has  been  irritated,  half- 
maddened  by  the  unknown  language  written  on 
her  countenance — many  a  time  of  late  he  has  al- 
most hated  her  therefor. 

"You  and  I  are  reaching  a  point  where  some 
sort  of  explanation  will  be  necessary,"  he  says, 
angrily.  "  I  don't  mean  to  be  met  at  every 
turn  by  obstinacy  and  secretiveness — mysteries 
made  out  of  every  trifle  just  to  irritate  me.  If 
you  have  any  secrets,  I  advise  you  to  be  careful." 

"  Oh,  stop — don't  say  any  more, "she  answers, 
wearily.  "  We  have  nothing  to  quarrel  about 
— do  not  invent  reasons — let  us  have  such  peace 
us  we  can  find." 

"I  want  that  paper,"  he  persists.  "I  am 
determined  to  know  what  it  is !  I  wish  to  un- 
derstand why  my  coming  home  unexpectedly 
puts  you  in  this  state  !  I  have  not  the  slightest 
intention  of  playing  the  part  of  un  mart  sage, 
and  timing  my  arrival  to  suit  any  little  plans 
you  may  happen  to  have  on  foot." 

"  If  you  will  not  be  quiet,  I  shall  go,"  she  says, 
rising.  "  Perhaps  you  will  have  come  back  to 
your  senses  by  the  time  dinner  is  ready." 

With  an  unexpected  movement  he  snatches 
the  paper  from  her  hand,  so  carried  away  by 
anger  that  for  an  instant  he  half  believes  that  he 
holds  some  secret.  Well  as  he  knows  her,  forced 
as  he  is  to  feel  her  honor  and  truth,  detesting 
her  sometimes  therefor,  with  one  side  of  his  dis- 
torted mind,  he  half  believes,  his  devilish  suspi- 
cions for  an  instant. 

"  Now  then  for  your  little  private  letter !"  he 
cries. 

"Not  yet — don't  look  at  it  3ret,"she  pleads. 
"  I  meant  to  tell  you,  but  not  with  such  feelings 
between  us  !  Oh,  of  all  things  in  the  world  over 
which  we  might  have  trouble,  do  not  let  us  choose 
this  !  Let  me  tell  you  in  my  own  time — my  own 


way.     Let  us  try  for  cnce  to  act  together  and  to 
act  for  the  best." 

"I*  is  my  opinion  that  I  shall  have  to  end  by 
paying  for  your  keep  in  a  mad-house,"  is  the  an- 
swer she  receives. 

She  has  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  ;  he  shakes 
it  off. 

"  I  beg  you  to  wait !" 

"  And  I  beg  you  not  to  touch  me,"  he  retorts  ; 
"my  susceptibilities  are  as  keen  as  yours.  Hands 
off",  if  you  please!  I  shall  not  wait! — I  shall 
read  it!" 

"Then  read — read  it  and  be  done,"  she  an- 
swers, and  once  more  seats  herself. 

A  fresh  sensation  of  hopelessness  strikes  her. 
Even  if  she  tries  to  do  right,  something  prevents 
her  doing  it  in  a  manner  which  could  bring  about 
the  good  she  desires.  She  can  not  tell  if  it  be 
fate  or  her  own  error,  but  so  it  always  happens. 
He  must  have  his  way  ;  she  can  struggle  no 
longer. 

Vaughan  is  laughing  bitterly,  scornfully,  as  he 
lifts  the  paper.  It  is  only  a  printed  page,  after 
all. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  such  a  performance  ?" 
he  asks.  ' '  A  nice  bit  of  work  over  an  accursed 
little—" 

He  stops.  He  has  caught  sight  of  the  writing, 
and  he  recognizes  it;  he  deciphers  the  lines,  more, 
it  seems  to  him,  by  a  sudden  action  of  memory 
than  any  thing  else. 

' '  Mila  dy — Marguerite. 

"Darrell  Vaughan — Darrell  Vaughan." 

Something  shivers  at  his  heart  as  if  a  hand  of 
ice  had  suddenly  been  laid  there.  Were  he  able  to 
analyze  his  thoughts,  he  could  not  tell  whether, 
it  is  pain — what  men  call  remorse — or  only  rage. 
But  he  feels  as  if  a  ghost  had  started  up  before  his 
eyes — yes,  a  ghost,  though  his  materialistic  creed 
would  not  grant  any  significance  to  the  word  in- 
vented to  frighten  children. 

It  all  comes  back — incident  after  incident  of 
that  episode  in  his  life  so  long  perished — of  the 
veiy  day  he  wrote  those  line's — the  beautiful  face 
which  looked  up  into  his  as  he  laughingly  pen- 
ciled them — the  face  radiant  with  youth  and 
loveliness !  More  than  this,  he  sees  the  crowd 
in  the  court -room — that  face  looks  out  at  him 
again,  awful  in  the  wreck  of  its  beauty,  in  its 
apathy  of  despair.  These  pictures  flash  before 
his  eyes  as  a  gleam  of  lightning  reveals  phase 
after  phase  of  a  landscape  that  has  been  hidden 
beneath  the  blackness  of  a  tempest  till  it  looks 
unfamiliar. 

He  turns  angrily  upon  Elizabeth. 

"Have  you  been  spying — hunting  among  my 
things — " 

Then  he  stops,  conscious  that  he  has  betrayed 
himself. 

"I  will  tell  you  how  I  found  it,"  he  hears 
Elizabeth  say. 

"  Nonsense !    What  is  it  any  way  ?    I  am  sure 


136 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


you  must  be  out  of  your  senses — making  a  scene 
over  a  scrap  of  an  old  book." 

This  with  some  feeble  pretense  to  cheat  not 
only  her  but  himself — to  get  away  from  those 
flashes  of  memory  that  burn  and  sear  somehow 
as  they  have  hardly  done  during  all  these  years 
of  secrecy  and  guilt. 

"We  must  talk  about  it,"  Elizabeth  says,  firm- 
ly. "I  can  not  live,  Darrell  Vaughan — I  can  not 
bear  my  part  of  the  burden  unless  you  will  take 
some  means — try  in  some  way  to  atone." 

"Now  see  here — " 

"  Stop,  stop !  listen  to  me !" 

"I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort!  .  You  have 
found,  Heaven  knows  how  or  when,  a  scrap  of  an 
old  book,  and  you  choose  to  build  up  a  romance, 
and  go  into  one  of  your  fevers,  and  act  when  I 
come  home  more  like  a  lunatic  than  any  thing 
else." 

She  sits  upright  in  her  chair  now.  Every  trace 
of  emotion  has  left  her  face ;  her  eyes  are  full 
upon  him  with  that  cold,  searching  expression  he 
has  learned  so  well — a  look  that  always  irritates 
him  more  than  the  most  bitter  words  could  do. 

"  Why  you  showed  me  this  I  can  not  imagine," 
he  hurries  on,  forced  by  his  natural  dissimulation 
to  keep  up  this  farce  of  falsehood,  however  vain 
and  shallow  he  may  feel  it  to  be. 

"Don't  say  any  more — don't !"  Elizabeth  says, 
and  her  voice  falters.  It  makes  her  faint,  sick, 
the  miserable  attempt  to  deceive  at  a  moment 
like  this,  when  all  she  longs  for  is  to  help  him 
into  some  course  of  right  action.  "  Let  me  tell 
you — I  am  not  angry,  I  don't  mean  to  make  a 
scene ;  but  you  must  hear. " 

"  I'll  hear  nothing  more  of  your  absurd  fan- 
cies ;  some  ridiculous  whim ;  a  trick  you  have 
gotten  up  to  annoy  me,"  he  persists  still,  and 
can«ot  stop,  though  he  feels  the  absolute  absurd- 
ity of  the  position  he  has  taken. 

"I  must  tell  you,  Darrell,  for  I  have  found 
— Milady's  child." 

She  hesitates  a  little  over  the  words.  Even 
now,  after  all  that  has  come  and  gone,  after  all 
she  has  liv«d  through,  the  misery  and  degrada- 
tion he  has  forced  upon  her,  she  shrinks  from  the 
task  of  showing  him  that  she  sees  his  soul  as  it 
really  is.  B«t  she  has  spoken  the  words.  A 
brief  silence  follows. 

"Well,  what  do  you  mean  to  do  now?"  he 
asks,  sullenly. 

"  It  was  about  that  I  wanted  to  speak,"  she 
replies.  "If  that  had  been  nil,  I  would  never 
have  told  you — I  would  have  cared  for  the  little 
thing,  and  been  glad  to  ;  but  there's  something 
more  to  be  done." 

He  leaves  her  side,  and  walks  up  and  down  the 
room  among  the  shadows.  Elizabeth  rises  from 
her  seat  and  approaches  him.  He  turns  toward 
her,  frowning  blacklv. 

"I'll  just  tell  you  one  thing,"  he  says  ;  "you're 
the  curse  of  my  life,  and  I  hate  you !" 


The  cruel  words  do  not  anger  her  ;  they  do  not 
even  cause  her  pain.  What  she  thinks  of  at  this 
moment  is  to  succeed  in  her  purpose  —  to  find 
some  appeal  which  shall  move  his  heart  or  his 
conscience. 

"  There  is  no  need  to  talk  of  yourself  or  me 
just  now,"  she  answers,  moving  beside  him  as  he 
resumes  his  march.  "  I  am  not  minding  for  my- 
self— I  can't  even  care  about  what  you  say — " 

"Because  you  are  stone — ice!"  he  breaks  in. 
passionately.  "  All  you  want  is  to  set  yourself 
up  on  a  pedestal  of  dignity  and  virtue,  and  show 
how  much  better  you  are  than  other  people ! 
Better !  Wait  till  you  are  tempted  ;  wait  till 
you  have  blood  in  your  veins  before — " 

He  ends  the  speech  only  by  a  gesture—  a  move- 
ment as  if  his  impulse  were  to  strike,  but  lets  his 
hand  drop  to  his  side. 

She  must  go  on — she  must  tell  the  rest.  Per- 
sonally she  is  powerless  to  act,  but  she  can  not 
endure  the  consciousness  that  she  has  made  no 
effort  to  aid  that  hapless  woman,  to  aid  Darrell 
himself  in  the  strife  of  his  evil  instincts  against 
his  own  soul. 

"Don't  talk  of  me,"  she  says;  "don't  think 
of  me  if  you  can  help  it.  I  am  nothing  in  the 
matter." 

"  Then  why  do  you  meddle  with  it  ?"  he  inter- 
rupts. "  I  suppose  you  mean  to  do  heroics !  I 
should  think  you  were  old  enough  to  have  learn- 
ed common-sense.  Do  you  suppose  men  are  an- 
gels ?  Do  you  think  there  is  any  body  that  has 
not  gone  through  some  infernal  folly  of  the  sort  ?" 

"I  don't  judge  you;  try  to  understand  me. 
It  is  not  that.  I  only  want — oh,  Darrell !  it  is 
never  too  late  to  set  wrong  right ;  never  too  late 
to  atone!" 

He  looks  at  her  now  with  only  an  expression 
of  amazement  in  his  countenance. 

"Now  what  have  you  got  into  your  head?" 
he  asks. 

"  If  she  could  be  found — she  went  to  Califor- 
nia— it  is  long  ago — but  she  might  be  found — she 
might  be  helped.  She  was  ill — suffering ;  she — '' 

"Who  the  deuce  told  you  all  this  fine  ro- 
mance?" he  breaks  in.  "Now  let's  finish  and 
have  no  more  jcords.  I've  no  intention  of  pre- 
tending not  to  understand.  There  was  such  a 
woman,  and  I  was  a  young  fool !  If  there  was 
any  body  deserved  pity,  it  was  I.  But  it  is  use- 
less to  try  to  make  you  comprehend  that." 

"  She  was  so  young,  so — " 

"  Will  you  be  quiet  ?  I  tell  you  that  you  don't 
know  what  you  are  talking  about !  The  woman 
was  one  of  the  worst  creatures  that  ever  lived. 
As  for  all  that  stuff — the  child,  and  all  that — it 
might  be  mine  or  any  body's !  Now  don't  shiver 
and  shake — you've  brought  it  on  yourself — try 
and  look  at  the  business  in  a  reasonable  light." 

"Oh,  don't  I  tell  you  it  makes  no  difference 

where  I  am  concerned  ?"  she  groans.     "  Only  let 

!  let  us  try  to  do  something.  Don't  remember  I  am 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


137 


your  wife;  just  think  that  we  are  two  friends 
— that  I  want  to  help — that  I  shall  be  glad  and 
thankful  to  help." 

' '  Why,  what  is  there  to  be  done  ?" 

"The  child.  If  there  is  nothing  else  to  be 
done,  we  might — " 

She  can  not  tinish  ;  lie  is  laughing !  Oh,  if  he 
had  heaped  abuse  upon  her,  struck  her  to  the 
earth,  she  thinks  it  would  have  been  little  to  bear 
in  comparison  to  this  proof  of  his  utter  hardness. 

"  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  adopt  the  brat — do  the 
good  Samaritan,  so  as  to  have  a  proof  of  my 
wickedness  always  at  hand,"  he  sneers. 

"I  would  take  it  if  you  would  let  me,"  is  her 
answer  ;  "  I  would  love  it.  Who  knows  ?  Per- 
haps she  might  bring  a  blessing  into  our  home." 

"  Of  all  exasperating  women  you  are  the  worst ! " 
he  exclaims.  "  Now  let  this  be  the  last  time  you 
erer  mention  the  subject.  I  should  think  you 
would  be  ashamed  to  mix  yourself  up  with  such 
wickedness — so  fine  and  virtuous  as  you  are." 

"  And  you  will  do  nothing  ?" 

"No!  A  pretty  idea  if  a  man  is  to  hunt  up 
every  vile  woman  that  happened  to  fasten  herself 
on  him  when  he  was  young  and  silly !  If  that 
were  the  law,  I'm  thinking  you'd  find  some  of 
your  religious  friends  with  a  sort  of  harem  that 
would  astonish  you." 

She  has  gained  nothing — done  no  good !  That 
is  all  she  thinks  or  cares  for.  She  does  not  even 
heed  the  coarse  words  which  at  another  moment 
would  have  hurt  her  worse  than  blows. 

"I  can  not  bear  it!''  she  cries;  "I  cannot  bear 
it !  She  was  young  —  she  was  a  woman  —  she 
must  have  been  innocent  once — " 

"Now  I  doubt  that,"  Vaughan breaks  in  again 
with  cool  irony.  ' '  She  was  born  utterly  depraved 
and  abandoned.  I  see  what  you  fancy — that  I 
ruined  her  life — drove  her  to  sin,  as  you  call  it. 
Nothing  of  the  sort.  Why  you  ought  to  be 
ashamed  to  make  me  tell  you  such  things.  Of 
course  you  would  blame  me — you  would  be  cer- 
tain I  had  been  wrong !  I  suffered  enough  from 
that  she-devil.  I  hope  she's  dead  1 TI 

"Darrell!" 

"I  hope  she's  dead!  She  nearly  ruined  me; 
she —  Why  she  was  a  liar  and  a  thief  1  Look 
here,  you  needn't  talk  about  hunting  her  up.  I 
remember  now,  she  was  concerned  in  a  murder 
or  something  of  the  sort.  I  heard  of  her  in  Cal- 
ifornia ;  they  lynched  her,  I  think.  A  wretch 
— a  devil ;  and  you  come  laying  her  sins  at  my 
door !  I'll  not  endure  it.  I'm  tired  of  you  al- 
ways trying  to  believe  some  ill  of  me.  Let  me 
alone,  or  I'll  make  you  repent  it." 

How  much  is  acting,  how  much  genuine  rage, 
Elizabeth  can  not  tell.  It  does  not  matter.  As 
usual,  she  has  done  harm  in  her  effort  to  act 
aright.  She  is  ready  to  believe  ill  of  him — she 
feels  that ;  is  it  strange  ?  She  has  every  reason  ; 
but  what  good  can  follow  harsh  words  or  recrim- 
ination? If  she  had  onlv  been  silent — vet  that 


seemed  impossible.  She  has  accomplisned  noth- 
ing, but  she  has  done  every  thing  in  her  power. 
She  knows  that  each  word  he  speaks  is  false ; 
she  can  not  credit  him,  though  there  would  be  a 
certain  relief  in  doing  so.  Whatever  she  had 
since  grown  under  the  brutalizing  effects  of  an 
evil  life,  the  woman  had  loved  him.  She  had  been 
young  and  fair,  and — oh,  why  think,  why  torture 
herself!  She  is  helpless — helpless!  Living  or 
dead,  the  outcast  is  beyond  her  reach.  It  had 
seemed  so  easy,  as  she  thought,  of  ways  and 
means  to  help,  and  a  wall,  a  great  black  wall,  has 
suddenly  been  built  between  her  and  the  possi- 
bility. 

Something  for  the  child  she  may  do — in  secret. 
Dan-ell  Vaughan's  child — his  eyes,  his  expression. 
There  is  proof  there  which  even  he  could  not  re- 
sist were  she  set  before  him. 

When  she  looks  up  from  that  whirl  of  dizzy- 
ing reflection  she  is  alone.  Vaughan  has  left  the 
room  without  her  observing  it  after  that  last  furi- 
ous tirade.  The  torn  page  lies  at  her  feet,  where 
he  flung  it ;  she  picks  it  up — smoothes  it  out — 
hides  it  away.  She  can  not  destroy  the  record  ; 
utterly  worthless  as  it  is,  she  can  no  more  do  it 
than  she  could  spurn  the  wretched  creature  her- 
self if  she  were  to  appear  suddenly  and  beg  for 
help.  Dead — dead  as  the  penalty  of  her  crimes ! 
Vaughan  had  said  this ;  it  is  not  true !  There 
seems  no  reason  for  doubting  him,  but,  all  the 
same,  Elizabeth  feels  that  it  is  not  true. 

It  is  quite  dark  ;  dinner  must  be  nearly  ready. 
It  is  time  to  dress ;  every  wearisome,  petty  de- 
tail of  common  life  must  go  on.  Shock  after 
shock  may  come — she  may  be  thrust  further  and 
further  into  the  gloom  and  cold,  further  and  fur- 
ther from  any  hope  whereon  to  steady  her  mind 
— but  life  must  go  on.  The  miserable  pretense 
must  be  kept  up  :  dinners  eaten,  friends  greeted, 
the  whole  round  of  daily  existence  endured,  while 
her  soul  stares  out  into  the  blackness  with  aching 
eyes,  and  can  scarcely  find  a  ray  of  light  to  re- 
mind her  that  above  all  and  beyond  all,  the  mis- 
ery, the  sin.  there  still  stretches  heaven  with  its 
future. 

Her  dressing-room  is  lighted,  but  the  maid  is 
not  there. 

Vaughan  enters  quickly ;  he  has  heard  her  step. 
He  comes  holding  a  letter  in  his  hand. 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  Carstoe  was  gone  ?" 
he  asks.  "  What  the  devil  does  it  mean — is  this 
your  work  too?" 

"I  had  no  time  to  remember,"  she  answers. 
"He  told  me  business  called  him  back  to  Cali- 
fornia. If  I  had  thought  about  it,  I  should  have 
supposed  you  knew." 

"The  old  fool  has  resigned  the  agency !"  ex- 
claims Vaughan.  "Now  just  tell  me  what  that 
means." 

"I  have  no  idea ;  he  did  not  speak  of  it  to  me. " 

She  is  telling  the  truth — he  sees  that. 

"  Ungrateful  old  hound  !"  he  mutters. 


138 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


"  I  don't  think  Mr.  Carstoe  is  that,"  Elizabeth 
replies,  absently.  "It  seems  odd — what  does  he 
say  ?" 

""Say— say?  Read  his  letter  and  see!  You 
may  dine  without  me — I  am  going  out.  You 
have  managed  a  pretty  welcome  for  a  man  after 
a  month's  absence !  You're  a  lovely  pattern  of 
a  wife — a  model  of  the  domestic  virtues  !" 

Then  he  flings  out  of  the  room.  Elizabeth 
reads  Mr.  Carstoe 's  letter.  It  affords  no  expla- 
nation ;  he  only  says  that  circumstances  compel 
him  to  resign  his  trust.  While  in  California  he 
will  arrange  the  business  matters  so  that  they  can 
be  placed  in  some  other  hands.  If  Mr.Vaughan 
will  write  at  once  and  appoint  a  new  agent,  he, 
Carstoe,  will  be  glad,  as  he  desires  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible to  be  freed  from  his  present  duties. 

What  it  means  Elizabeth  does  not  know,  but 
she  feels  that  the  brief,  constrained  letter  has  a 
meaning,  and  a  painful  one.  In  some  way  his 
illusions  in  regard  to  Darrell  Vaughan  have  been 
dispelled — he  knows  him  for  what  he  is :  so  much 
significance  the  letter  has  to  her. 

They  come  presently  and  tell  her  dinner  is 
ready.  She  makes  some  excuse  for  her  husband, 
but  not  a  soul  among  the  domestic  band  is  de- 
ceived. They  know  very  well  that  Mr.Vaughan 
is  subject  "to  his  little  tempers,"  smooth  as  he 
appears  to  the  outside  world.  They  comprehend 
perfectly  that  he  has  left  the  house  under  the  in- 
fluence of  one  of  these  attacks.  They  talked  it 
over  among  themselves  of  course,  and  are  divided 
in  opinion  as  to  whether  the  blame  rests  with  the 
master  or  mistress  of  the  mansion,  and,  after  a 
general  instinct  of  human  nature,  end  in  blaming 
both  about  equally,  and  finding  a  certain  pleasure 
in  so  doing. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE   QUEEN    OF   THE   BOHEMIANS. 

THE  autumn  hnd  come  before .  Nathalie  La 
Tour's  affairs  rendered  the  voyage  to  America 
practicable.  She  was  wild  with  impatience  to 
go.  More  numbers  of  the  Bohemian  had  reach- 
ed her,  bringing  fresh  incense  of  praise,  and  ea- 
gerly demanding  her  presence  in  the  New  World, 
where,  according  to  the  Bohemian,  a  whole  na- 
tion waited  to  greet  her  with  the  admiration  due 
her  genius  and  her  success. 

Nathalie  had  looked  forward  to  attracting 
great  attention  on  the  steamer :  of  course  all 
her  fellow-voyagers  would  be  excited  about  the 
presence  of  so  celebrated  a  woman.  Unfortu- 
nately, Nathalie's  stomach  was  not  of  the  strong- 
est, and  from  Liverpool  to  New  York  she  could 
only  lie  flat  in  her  berth,  and  wish  disconsolately 
that  she  had  never  been  born.  But  she  could 
not  even  be  miserable  in  peace,  for  Susanne, 
finally  wretched,  and  no  better  able  to  bear  it 


than  if  she  had  been  a  genius  also,  lay  moaning 
night  and  day  on  the  upper  shelf,  finding  slight 
comfort  in  peevish  complaints  against  the  cruelty 
of  her  mistress  in  having  dragged  an  unfortu- 
nate old  woman  forth  to  meet  an  awful  death  upon 
the  sea,  in  spite  of  prayers  and  resistance.  Su- 
sanne always  insisted  upon  her  unwillingness  to 
go,  though  she  had  scolded  straight  through  the 
summer  over  the  delay  in  their  departure. 

But  the  misery  ended  at  length  ;  land  was  in 
sight ;  the  steamer  sailed  majestically  up  the 
beautiful  bay,  and  Nathalie  got  on  deck  to  catch 
a  first  view  of  the  great  city  where  the  fulfillment 
of  the  future  awaited  her. 

She  was,  perhaps,  a  little  surprised  that  the 
cannon  from  the  different  forts  did  not  boom  out 
a  welcome  as  she  passed ;  but  when  the  vessel 
reached  the  dock,  what  she  called  her  triumph 
commenced. 

The  editor  of  the  Bohemian,  accompanied  by 
representatives  of  the  illustrious  band  which 
gave  the  paper  its  name,  came  on  board  to  re- 
ceive her.  Nathalie  could  have  wished  that  most 
of  the  party  had  been  differently  attired,  but  con- 
soled her  easily  disturbed  taste  by  remembering 
how  many  examples  there  were  of  genius  appear- 
ing indifferent  to  such  matters. 

Lodgings  had  been  procured  for  her  at  a 
French  hotel  in  the  upper  part  of  the  town,  and 
the  very  evening  of  her  arrival  there  was  a  gath- 
ering of  the  Bohemian  clique  in  those  apart- 
ments. The  editor  had  told  her  how  anxious 
these  earnest-souled  men  and  women  were  to 
welcome  her  appearance  among  them,  and 
though  she  would  have  been  glad  to  rest  and  re- 
cover her  looks  a  little,  the  fear  of  disappointing 
them,  and  her  own  eagerness  to  taste  her  triumph 
to  the  full,  prevented  her  asking  for  any  delay. 
Indeed,  as  she  understood  the  matter,  these  un- 
known worshipers  had  prepared  an  entertain- 
ment in  her  honor — to  be  given  at  the  hotel  in 
order  to  spare  her  fatigue,  but  an  entertainment 
of  which  she  was  to  be  the  chief  guest. 

The  supper  was  a  good  one ;  nothing  had 
been  spared,  even  to  champagne  ;  and  the  Bo- 
hemians —  more  shame  to  an  unappreciative 
world,  who  paid  slight  attention  to  the  needs  of 
such  elevated  natures — did  not  drink  champagne 
every  day.  A  few  men  appeared  in  correct 
evening  dress,  more  or  less  dilapidated  ;  several 
with  their  coats  tightly  buttoned,  in  order  to 
conceal  the  lack  of  waistcoat.  Others  made  a» 
much  as  possible  of  that  garment,  conscious  that 
it  was  the  best  point  in  their  attire.  There  were 
long-haired  poets,  who  had  pined  voiceless  until 
they  found  utterance  through  the  columns  of  the 
Bohemian.  Men  whose  pictures  year  after  year 
were  sent  ignominiously  back  from  the  exhibi- 
tions, owing  to  the  malice  and  envy  of  the  "hang- 
ing committee  ;"  but  the  Bohemian  was  at  hand 
now  to  give  their  wrongs  a  tongue,  not  to  men- 
tion interminable  criticisms  upon  those  remark- 


ME.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


139 


able  works.  There  were  women  celebrated, 
through  the  Bohemian — women  who  wrote,  wom- 
en who  painted,  women  who  acted  and  sang  as 
neither  Rachel  nor  Fatti  had  ever  done,  though 
fate  and  a  gross  world  refused  a  recognition  of 
their  gifts.  But  men  and  women,  they  bowed 
before  Nathalie,  and  the  supper  proved  a  brill- 
iant success. 

Many  poems  were  recited  in  her  honor ;  she 
was  called  on  for  a  speech ;  she  made  one  that 
was  loudly  applauded.  She  was  crowned  with 
a  garland  of  flowers,  and  hailed  Queen — "Queen 
of  the  Bohemians!"  Her  heart  swelled,  and 
Susanne,  peeping  at  the  scene  through  a  half- 
open  door,  fairly  wept  with  joy,  convinced,  like 
her  young  mistress,  that  this  adulation  was  the 
admiring  utterance  of  a  whole  people — an  entire 
continent. 

But  the  culminating  moment  was  when  the 
prophet  of  the  band  rose  to  pour  forth  the  in- 
spired measures  her  coming  had  roused  in  his 
mighty  soul.  This  tribute  had  been  left  till  the 
last — it  followed  directly  after  the  coronation, 
and  Bohemia  felt  that  nothing  more  was  possible 
in  the  way  of  honoring  its  new  sovereign.  Natha- 
lie was  convinced  of  the  beauty  of  the  poem  ; 
every  body  rushed  into  ecstasies  ;  one  enthusias- 
tic female  kissed  the  hem  of  the  prophet's  robe — 
a  rather  greasy  black  frock-coat,  much  worn 
about  the  seams.  But  somehow,  try  as  she 
might  to  appreciate  the  tribute,  it  seemed  to 
Nathalie  that  she  must  be  less  familiar  with 
English  than  she  supposed,  though  she  had 
spoken  it  all  her  life,  for  these  glowing  strains 
sounded  almost  like  an  unknown  language  in 
her  ears. 

The  editor  of  the  Bohemian  was  too  wise  a 
man  to  lose  any  time.  On  the  very  next  day 
Nathalie  signed  various  legal  documents  and  a 
check  for  a  goodly  amount ;  a  share  of  that  new 
lever  of  the  world  belonged  to  her,  and  her 
name  would  appear  on  the  next  issue  as  one  of 
the  editors. 

Those  first  days  were  so  full  of  occupation 
that  Nathalie  had  little  leisure  for  surprise  or 
disappointment,  though  the  moment  she  set  eyes 
on  the  leaders  of  the  clan,  old  Susanne  expressed 
her  opinion  that  if  literary  men  wore  such  shabby 
trousers,  for  her  part  she  would  prefer  those  with 
less  poetry  and  better  clothes. 

Nathalie  had  several  articles  to  prepare  for  the 
Bohemian,  and,  as  newspaper  writing  was  new  to 
her,  of  course  they  occupied  a  great  deal  of  at- 
tention. Then  her  friends  were  much  about 
her,  and  somehow,  men  and  women,  they  al- 
ways seemed  to  be  eating — how  it  chanced 
Nathalie  could  not  tell.  She  began  to  fear  she 
had  a  mania  for  making  people  eat,  and  that 
these  poetical  natures  yielded  just  to  gratify  her. 

Why,  there  was  Mrs.  O'Moo,  who  gave  lectures 
(in  California)  "On  the  Radicalism  of  Jesus 
Christ,"  who  said  that  the  fathers  of  women's 


children  ought  to  be  whatsoever  men  those  wom- 
en happened  to  have  a  spiritual  affinity  for  at 
the  time — even  she  ate,  ethereal  as  her  nature 
was — ate  breakfast  and  dinner  often,  and  extra 
meals  besides.  And  young  Mr.  Fustian,  with 
his  long  hair  in  his  eyes,  and  poetry  upon  his 
lips,  whose  soul  had  called  Nathalie's  soul  across 
the  vast  deep,  he  ate  ;  and  all  the  intermediates 
between  these  two  extremes  of  the  Bohemian 
clique  did  more  eating  during  the  first  ten  days 
after  Nathalie's  arrival  than  they  had  done  in 
months. 

It  was  a  little  blow  to  Nathalie  when  Miss 
Grun  (who  painted  such  lovely  pre-liaphaelite 
pictures,  which  some  man  high  in  authority  kept 
out  of  the  exhibition  from  jealousy) — I  say  it 
was  a  blow  to  Nathalie,  when  the  fair  Miss  Grun 
made  a  symposium  at  her  studio  in  honor  of  the 
Queen,  to  be  set  down  to  cold  beans  and  vinegar, 
and  a  huge  pitcher  of  ale  to  moisten  the  repast. 

But  when  Nathalie's  hotel  bill  came  in,  she  no 
longer  wondered  at  cold  beans  and  vinegar  being 
the  usual  Bohemian  ambrosia  at  supper.  She 
was  almost  frightened  to  death,  accustomed  as 
she  was  to  the  moderate  prices  of  the  Continent, 
and  Susanne  gave  her  an  inordinate  scolding. 

There  were  items  in  the  bill  which  puzzled 
Nathalie  exceedingly.  The  expense  of  the  en- 
tertainment given  by  the  Bohemians  on  her  ar- 
rival was  set  down.  This  must  have  been  for- 
getfulness  on  the  part  of  the  deputation — Natha- 
lie felt  that  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  men- 
tion it.  There  were  carriages  at  late  hours  of 
the  night,  and  double  prices  for  them  in  conse- 
quence. The  only  carriages  ordered  at  such 
times  had  been  those  her  guests  had  command- 
ed ;  but  this  was  a  matter  also  that  she  could 
not  mention  to  her  friends.  Then  followed 
items  such  as  these  :  Three  rum  punches  at  bar ; 
four  gin  cocktails  at  bar ;  six  hot  whiskies  at  bar. 
Nathalie  did  not  even  know  what  the  bar  was. 
Susanne  was  unable  to  comprehend  the  bill  be- 
cause the  clerk  had  written  it  in  English,  but 
she  sent  for  .the  hotel-keeper,  and  rated  him 
fearfully.  He  listened  with  the  composure  only 
a  French  landlord  can  attain,  then  reminded 
Nathalie  that  the  day  after  her  arrival  he  had 
asked  her  if  orders  given  by  her  guests  were  to 
be  set  down  to  her  account.  Nathalie  recollect- 
ed this — remembered,  too,  that  she  had  replied 
in  the  affirmative,  without  stopping  to  think  the 
question  an  odd  one — her  head  had  been  full  of 
her  honors. 

But  Madame  had  not  forgotten  ?  Very  well 
— all  these  extraordinary  items  were  the  result 
of  this  direction  on  Madame's  part.  Nathalie 
bethought  herself  that  Bohemianism  was  frater- 
nity, and.held  her  peace. 

Miss  Grun  happened  to  come  in  while  Natha- 
lie was  still  regarding  the  long  row  of  figures, 
and  Susanne  upbraiding  her  loudly.  Miss  Grun 
soon  understood  the  case.  No  doubt  the  bill 


140 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIK. 


was  right  enough  (Nathalie  could  not  bring 
herself  to  do  more  than  show  the  total) ;  she 
must  expect  horrible  charges  if  she  lived  at  a 
hotel. 

'•I  do  not  know  what  your  fortune  may  be," 
said  Miss  Grun,  beautifully  oblivious  of  the  fact 
that  nothing  else  had  been  talked  of  in  Bohemia 
for  months  before  Nathalie's  arrival ;  "but  it  is 
only  the  very  wealthiest  persons  who  can  afford 
to  live  at  such  places  in  New  York." 

"I  did  not  know,"  returned  Nathalie.  "I 
wonder  Mr.  Counter  did  not  tell  me." 

"Oh,  Counter  is  always  in  the  clouds,"  said 
Miss  Grun,  disdainfully. 

"  Or  Mrs.  O'Moo,"  continued  Nathalie. 

Miss  Grun  gave  vent  to  a  sharp,  derisive  laugh. 

Even  in  Bohemia  ladies  sometimes  quarreled, 
and  a  bitter  enmity  existed  between  the  female 
lecturer  and  the  maiden  artist.  The  origin  of 
the  difficulty  was  quite  obscure  ;  but  it  appeared 
tolerably  certain  that  a  ruffled  petticoat  was  at 
the  bottom  of  the  feud — a  ruffled  petticoat,  and 
a  man,  of  course. 

In  Bohemia  it  was  by  no  means  uncommon 
for  people  to  borrow  articles  of  attire.  Nathalie 
had  herself  noticed  a  blue-crape  shawl  which 
belonged  apparently  to  six  different  ladies,  and 
was  acquainted  with  a  turquoise  pin  which  made 
regularly  the  round  of  the  younger  gentlemen's 
shirt-fronts.  So  following  this  sweet  rule  of 
communism  and  fraternity,  Miss  Grun  had  once 
upon  a  time  lent  Mrs.  O'Moo  the  ruffled  petti- 
coat—  but  she  did  not  lend  her  lover.  Mrs. 
O'Moo  took  him  without  leave ;  whether  as  a 
lawful  perquisite  on  the  ground  of  affinity,  or  a 
natural  accompaniment  to  the  petticoat,  I  am 
unable  to  say — she  took  him,  however,  and  hinc 
illce  lachrymal. 

So  now  Miss  Grun  emitted  a  derisive  laugh, 
and,  as  if  the  sound  had  been  a  magic  spell  which 
forced  her  into  speech,  she  began  the  melancholy 
history.  O'Moo  did  not,  in  reality,  belong  to  the 
band  over  which  Nathalie  ruled.  She  was  a 
New  Light  —  had  foisted  herself  upon  Bohemia, 
and  stuck  there  like  a  barnacle  to  a  ship. 

Miss  Grun  enveloped  Nathalie  in  the  petti- 
coat— blinded  her  with  the  ruffle  —  produced  a 
picture  of  the  false  lover — wept — moaned— had 
to  be  comforted  with  cura9oa  and  stayed  with 
sweet  -  cake.  At  the  end  of  all  her  eloquence, 
Nathnlie's  ideas  were  so  vague  that  she  could  not 
tell  whether  the  young  man  had  tried  to  cut  the 
border  off  O'Moo's  under-garment  as  a  present 
to  his  lady-love,  or  O'Moo  had  attempted  to  make 
a  ruffle  for  her  petticoat  out  of  some  article  of  the 
gentleman's  attire. 

Nathalie  thought  that  Miss  Grun  ought  to  con- 
fine herself  to  telling  stories  with  her  brush. 

But  to  return  to  the  matter  in  hand,  which 
they  did,  after  Miss  Grun  grew  composed.  The 
artist  advised  Nathalie  to  take  a  furnished  house, 
and  the  counsel  met  with  the  approbation  of  sev- 


eral of  the  male  Bohemians  who  chanced  to  stray 
in  at  the  moment. 

These  brethren  took  lunch,  by  the  way.  They 
found  Miss  Grun  daintily  nibbling  her  sweet-cake, 
and  proposed  joining  her,  "not  to  interrupt." 

Nathalie  did  take  a  furnished  house,  and  spent 
a  good  deal  of  money  on  what  she  called  "tri- 
fles" for  its  further  embellishment,  and  made  it 
a  very  pretty  abode  indeed.  Her  expenses  were 
lessened,  but  she  had  so  many  hangers-on  that 
they  were  still  heavier  than  she  could  afford. 
For  instance,  when  Miss  Grun  confided  to  her 
with  bitter  tears  that  she  was  forced  to  sleep  on 
a  sofa  in  her  studio,  and  cut  her  bread  with  a 
palette-knife,  how  could  Nathalie  avoid  offering 
her  a  home  ?  Then  some  poet  would  fling  him- 
self upon  the  floor  in  her  drawing  -  room,  and 
beg  for  a  dagger  wherewith  to  cut  his  throat  — 
Nathalie  would  lend  him  fifty  dollars  instead. 
Somebody  was  always  dining  with  her,  more 
somebodies  going  to  theatres  or  opera  at  her  ex- 
pense, and  most  of  the  band,  male  and  female, 
soon  appeared  in  entirely  new  wardrobes.  But 
even  this  did  not  prevent  articles  of  dress  be- 
ing frequently  borrowed.  However,  old  Susanne 
put  a  stop  to  that  privilege.  She  and  Mrs. 
O'Moo  finally  had  a  battle  royal  about  the  mat- 
ter. Susanne  caught  O'Moo  one  evening  rum- 
maging among  her  mistress's  trinkets  and  laces. 
O'Moo  said  sho  was  searching  for  a  pattern,  Su- 
sanne swore  that  she  was  stealing  a  pocket-hand- 
kerchief. Between  them  they  made  such  an  out- 
rageous racket  that  a  stray  policeman  stopped 
before  the  house,  and  Nathalie  and  the  rest  of 
the  Bohemians  rushed  upstairs  in  wild  excite- 
ment. 

Luckily  Susanne  could  only  tell  her  story  in 
French,  so  scarcely  any  one  besides  Nathalie  un- 
derstood the  charge  she  brought.  But  O'Moo 
was  furious,  and  w..rted  the  Queen  to  send  the 
old  woman  adrift.  Nathalie  refused  to  do  this, 
so  O'Moo  deserted  the  Bohemians  in  disgust, 
and  went  back  to  California  in  the  society  of  a 
man  who  gave  concerts  to  illustrate  the  "Music 
of  the  Future,"  and  O'Moo  explained  his  mean- 
ing in  a  lecture  styled  the  "Probable  Nebulislic 
State  of  Souls  in  the  Inner  Cosmos." 

So  the  weeks  went  on  to  November.  Natha- 
lie's kingdom  did  not  prove  the  golden  land  she 
had  expected.  What  was  the  good  of  making 
pretty  toilets  for  men  who  seldom  combed  their 
hair,  and  to  sit  in  the  room  with  women  who 
pinned  on  their  flounces,  and  wore  stockings  that 
needed  darning  ? 

Then  one  day  there  came  a  famous  lady  from 
another  clique,  and  told  Nathalie  she  had  made 
a  mistake — been  swindled,  in  fact.  The  Bohe- 
mians were  a  low,  impecunious  set,  possessing 
no  influence  whatever.  Nathalie  ought  to  join 
the  Transcendcntals  —  buy  into  their  journal, 
which  was  the  real  lever  that  was  to  move  the 
world.  Then  appeared  somebody  else  belong- 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


141 


ing  to  another  "ism"  which  was  the  only  light 
to  live  by.  Then  a  third  set  descended  upon 
her,  and  the  Bohemians  fought  all  the  intruders 
tooth  and  nail,  and  fairly  set  a  guard  in  the  royal 
abode  to  keep  their  Queen  from  being  stolen. 
Between  them  all  Nathalie  felt  terribly  confused 
and  at  a  loss,  and  was  almost  inclined  to  run 
away  and  subside  into  obscurity.  Bohemian- 
ism  in  New  York  she  found  was  very  different 
from  the  upper  world  of  Parisian  Bohemia, 
glimpses  of  which  had  so  dazzled  her. 

Then  her  ready  money  was  almost  exhausted. 
She  had  debts.  The  fortune  from  her  new  book 
did  not  pour  in  its  golden  tide.  The  editor  of 
the  Bohemian  was  constantly  demanding  mate- 
rial aid.  Altogether,  Nathalie  began  to  find  her 
crown  a  thorny  one,  and  to  be  sorely  perplexed 
and  troubled  whenever  she  had  time  to  think. 
And  a  period  came  when  she  must  take  time, 
for  her  affairs  were  in  a  critical  situation. 

So  it  chanced  that  on  the  very  evening  of  Dar- 
rell  Vaughan's  return  she  sat  alone  in  her  pretty 
salon.  The  whole  Bohemian  set  had  gone  to  a 
lecture  for  which  Nathalie  had  been  persuaded 
to  buy  a  score  or  two  of  tickets,  but  she  herself 
remained  at  home,  and  went  down  into  the 
depths  of  despair. 

Since  her  arrival  in  America,  Nathalie's  days 
had  been  so  full  of  occupation  that  she  had 
thought  little  of  Vaughan.  She  was  fond  of  in- 
dulging in  a  bit  of  sentiment  over  her  girlish 
dream  —  fond  of  saying,  writing,  and  believing 
that  her  heart  had  been  crushed  by  a  cruel  tyr- 
anny which  had  separated  her  from'  the  man 
she  loved,  and  tied  her  fast  in  unholy  wedlock ; 
but  it  was  a  very  pleasant  misery.  The  Bohe- 
mians were  not  interested  in  politics,  or  in  any 
thing  or  any  body  outside  their  circle,  so  it  was 
only  lately  that  mention  of  Vaughan  had  reached 
Nathalie.  But  she  had  learned  something  of  the 
prominent  position  he  occupied,  and  wondered 
occasionally  how  and  when  they  should  meet. 
She  could  not  have  accounted  for  the  feeling 
which  restrained  her  from  making  an  effort  to 
bring  this  meeting  about.  She  liked  to  think 
of  the  possibility ;  yet  mixed  with  the  romantic 
pleasure  there  was  a  certain  shrinking,  almost 
a  dread,  which  kept  her  passive. 

Yaughan  had  lately  read  Nathalie's  last  book, 
though  he  had  forgotten  the  name  of  the  man 
she  married,  and  did  not  connect  this  new  author 
with  the  girl  he  had  met  at  Clarens. 

He  recollected  Nathalie  herself  very  well,  and 
often  felt  angered  that  he  had  not  been  able 
further  to  study  the  peculiar  nature  which  had 
greatly  impressed  him.  Girl  and  woman,  Na- 
thalie always  showed  for  more  than  her  mental 
gifts  really  warranted,  and  Vaughan  had  mis- 
taken the  glitter  for  gold.  Often  in  his  thoughts 
he  compared  her  with  Elizabeth,  to  the  latter's 
disadvantage.  There  was  a  satisfaction  in  un- 
derrating his  wife.  The  more  he  was  obliged  to 


make  use  of  Elizabeth's  talents,  the  fonder  he 
became  of  doing  this — probably  to  convince  him- 
self that  she  had  no  important  part  in  his  work. 

When  he  dashed  out  of  the  house  after  the 
scene  with  his  wife  on  the  evening  of  his  return, 
he  went  to  his  club  to  dine.  A  literary  acquaint- 
ance whom  he  happened  to  meet  told  him  over 
their  wine — of  which  both  drank  a  goodly  share 
— the  history  of  the  woman  whose  novel  he  had 
just  been  reading,  and  Vaughan  learned  that  des- 
tiny had  again  flung  Nathalie  L'Estrange  within 
his  reach. 

So  late  that  evening,  as  the  Queen  of  the  Bo- 
hemians sat  alone,  succeeding  very  tolerably  in 
being  miserable,  because  she  hated  solitude,  the 
door  opened  suddenly,  and  Darrell  Vaughan  came 
once  more,  without  warning,  into  her  presence. 

She  had  not  looked  up,  supposing  the  intrud- 
er to  be  Susanne,  armed  with  some  sort  of  re- 
proof or  complaint. 

"  Nathalie !"  he  called ;   "  Nathalie!" 

She  raised  her  eyes,  and  saw  him  standing 
before  her — handsomer  than  ever,  she  thought. 
Dissipated  habits  —  above  all,  the  use  of  that 
poisonous  drug  which  he  craved  more  and  more 
— had  terribly  sapped  Vaughan's  vigor,  bodily 
and  mentally ;  but  as  yet  there  were  few  out- 
ward physical  signs.  To-night  the  wine  and 
spirits  which  he  drank  would  have  left  many  men 
helplessly  intoxicated,  but  with  him  the  only  ef- 
fect was  to  make  his  face  deadly  pale,  kindle  a 
fire  in  his  beautiful  eyes,  and  quicken  fancy  and 
tongue  with  the  eloquence  which  grew  daily  more 
dependent  upon  such  stimulus. 

Nathalie  started  to  her  feet,  and  uttered  his 
name,  half  in  joy,  half  in  terror — a  terror  for 
which  she  could  not  have  accounted  to  herself 
had  she  sought  to  do  so. 

He  was  beside  her,  clasping  her  hands  in  his, 
raining  kisses  upon  them,  uttering  wild  words, 
the  poetry  of  which  rather  than  their  full  mean- 
ing struck  Nathalie's  fancy.  But  partly  the 
spirit  of  coquetry  so  strong  within  her,  partly 
that  inexplicable  dread  which  had  sent  a  chill 
across  her  joy,  enabled  her  quickly  to  regain  an 
apparent  composure. 

"That  will  do,"  she  said,  laughing,  "even  as 
a  tribute  to  an  acquaintance  so  pleasant  as  ours 
was. " 

She  drew  her  hands  from  his  clasp,  and  sat 
down.  He  would  have  flung  himself  on  his  knees 
before  her,  but  she  held  up  a  warning  finger. 

"I  shall  send  for  Susanne,"  she  said.  "Sn- 
sanne  outwitted  us  once — she  will  come  down 
upon  you  like  an  ogress." 

"  And  they  married  you — carried  you  off — 
and  I  was  helpless!"  cried  Vaughan.  "I  only 
knew  to-night  that  you  were  near ;  I  have  been 
away  for  several  weeks.  Oh,  what  a  life  it  has 
been  since  I  lost  you !  But  I  have  found  you, 
found  you,  my  beautiful  Nathalie !" 

"I  have  seen  your  name  frequently, "she  re- 


H2 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


plied;   "you  have  been  growing  famous,  and  I 
— I  have  not  been  idle." 

"Idle?  I  should  think  not!  Why,  you  are 
the  most  celebrated  woman  of  the  day.  I  have 
read  every  one  of  your  books." 

She  believed  his  statement  in  regard  to  her 
fame,  despite  of  the  unpleasant  fact  that  only  to- 
day the  editor  of  the  Bohemian  had  been  after 
more  money  to  keep  the  journal  in  existence, 
and  her  publishers  had  hinted  that  if  she  decided 
to  bring  out  a  novel  during  the  winter  it  would 
be  well  for  her  to  advance  the  sum  necessary  to 
meet  the  expenses.  But  she  forgot  these  trifles 
in  the  pleasure  of  listening  to  the  exaggerated 
encomiums  which  he  lavished  upon  her  works 
and  her  success. 

"And  you  are  married  too,"  Nathalie  said, 
when  her  vanity  was,  for  the  moment,  sufficient- 
ly gratified  to  be  able  to  think  of  something  else. 
"  The  only  person  I  have  met  who  knew  you 
told  me  that — Mr.  Peters." 

Mr.  Peters  was  the  literary  man  who  had  in- 
formed Vaughan  of  Nathalie's  whereabouts. 

"Yes,  I  am  married,"  returned  he  moodily. 

"  Tell  me  what  your  wife  is  like.  Mr.  Peters 
only  knew  the  fact.  Indeed,  he  did  not  pretend 
to  be  well  acquainted  with  you." 

"  No ;  I  just  knew  him  from  our  belonging  to 
the  same  club." 

"Never  mind  him,"  broke  in  Nathalie;  "I 
just  know  him  too,  and  very  heavy  he  is  on 
hand. "  She  uttered  the  bit  of  slang  with  a  slight 
foreign  accent  that  made  it  amusing.  "  Tell  me 
about  your  wife.  How  does  she  look — is  she 
handsome  ?  Is — is  she  fond  of  you  ?" 

"No,  to  both  questions,"  replied  Vaughan. 
"There  is  nothing  to  tell.  I  was  married  the 
spring  after  I  saw  you  at  Clarens.  My  wife  is 
the  dullest,  most  commonplace  of  women  ;  she 
goes  her  way,  and  I  go  mine.  The  marriage  was 
a  family  matter ;  considered  a  good  thing  for  us 
both  by  our  relations;  and  that's  all  there  is 
about  it." 

"Ah,1*  said  Nathalie.  His  account  was  so 
perfectly  in  keeping  with  her  French  ideas  of 
matrimony  that  it  seemed  natural.  "And  you 
have  no  sympathies,  no  tastes  in  common  ?" 

"Bah!  Does  not  marriage  prevent  such? 
Don't  let's  talk  of  her  !  I  had  lost  you — nothing 
made  any  difference.  Oh,  Nathalie,  those  lovely 
days  at  Clarens ! " 

"But  suffering  develops  the  soul,"  she  re- 
plied, with  her  grandest  manner.  "I  should 
not  have  won  the  fame  which  is  mine  had  I 
never  suffered." 

She  looked  so  pretty,  voice  and  gestures  were 
so  sweet  and  graceful,  that  Vaughan  did  not  no- 
tice the  absurdity  of  the  speech. 

"  Then  you  did  care,  Nathalie?" 

"Oh,  don't  talk  of  those  days,"  she  sighed. 
"We  shall  be  good  friends  now;  no  one  can 
hinder  that— soul- friends!" 


"All  my  heart  and  soul  are  yours!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "I  love  you  —  I  have  always  loved 
you." 

She  held  up  her  finger,  laughing,  though  her 
color  changed  and  her  eyes  softened. 

"  I  have  forbidden  such  words  in  my  hearing, '' 
she  said.  "You  are  my  friend,  my  best  friend 
— my  only  one,  indeed.  Ah,  life  is  sad,  sad — 
my  way  is  very  lonely." 

She  wanted  poetry  and  sentiment,  that  was 
evident,  so  Vaughan  prepared  to  do  both  to  any 
extent.  She  talked  freely  about  herself — few 
things  pleased  her  more  than  to  do  this.  She 
detailed  her  life  in  France,  made  a  dramatic 
scene  of  her  escape,  the  perils  she  had  run,  and 
brought  up  her  narrative  to  the  present.  She 
told  her  plans,  expounded  her  theories;  and 
though  Vaughan  was  perfectly  able  to  perceive 
their  absurdity,  they  did  not  seem  absurd  when 
uttered  in  her  pretty  words.  He  shuddered  at 
the  idea  of  the  people  by  whom  she  was  sur- 
rounded, but  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  persuade 
her  to  give  them  their  cong€.  He  knew  her  well 
enough  to  be  certain  that  she  loved  gayety  and  ex- 
citement better  than  any  thing  in  the  world,  and 
the  land  of  Bohemia  had  grown  familiar  enough 
to  appear  a  little  wearisome  now. 

There  was  nothing  she  concealed,  even  to  the 
money  anxieties,  of  which  Darrell  was  delighted 
to  hear. 

"  Oh,  life  shall  be  a  different  thing  henceforth 
to  us  both!"  he  cried,  and  burst  into  excited 
blank  verse,  which  sounded  sweeter  to  Nathalie 
than  any  thing  her  most  admired  poets  of  the 
modern  sensational  school  had  ever  sung. 

Still,  the  interview  convinced  Vaughan  that 
triumph  would  not  be  easy.  The  creature  was 
an  odd  compound:  tantalizing, bewitching.  Dar- 
rell's  head  was  in  a  whirl. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

A    REVELATION. 

VACGHAN  had  been  at  home  about  four  weeks. 
When  December  came,  Congress  commenced  its 
session.  He  went  to  Washington  for  a  few  days. 
The  morning  after  his  return,  Elizabeth  learned 
that  he  had  resigned  his  seat  in  the  House — had 
been  offered,  and  had  accepted,  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal city  offices  connected  with  the  Port. 

She  read  this  in  a  newspaper — the  first  tidings 
that  reached  her  in  regard  to  the  matter.  She 
had  scarcely  seen  her  husband  alone  since  the 
evening  of  his  arrival.  She  understood  perfect- 
ly that  it  was  neither  a  feeling  of  shame  nor  guilt 
which  caused  him  to  avoid  her — not  even  anger; 
but  a  sentiment  of  dislike,  so  strong  that  in  his 
nature  it  might  grow  rapidly  into  positive  hatred. 

She  was  by  no  means  satisfied  with  her  own 
conduct — she  knew  that  in  her  appeal  to  his  con- 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


143 


science  she  nad  meant  for  the  best;  but  she 
might  have  erred  —  might  only  have  rendered 
matters  worse  so  far  as  their  present  life  was 
concerned.  Yet  had  it  been  to  do  over  again, 
she  felt  that  she  could  have  adopted  no  other 
line  of  action. 

But  the  subject  still  kept  its  hold  upon  her 
mind ;  discouraged  as  she  was,  helpless  indeed, 
she  could  not  relinquish  the  idea  in  some  way  of 
aiding  that  unknown  woman.  She  was  not  dead — 
this  conviction  remained.  But  to  find  her,  even 
to  take  the  least  step  toward  so  doing,  appeared 
utterly  impossible.  Yet  to  sit  quiet,  be  passive, 
was  terrible — it  seemed  like  spurning  a  human 
soul  that  called  for  help. 

Between  herself  and  her  husband  no  further 
conversation  could  be  held  in  regard  to  the  affair. 
He  had  not  even  asked  how  she  discovered  the 
child,  or  where  it  was — thrust  every  thing  con- 
nected with  the  history  aside,  as  he  had  done  for 
years — perhaps  did  not  even  recognize  it  as  spe- 
cially the  cause  for  the  active  animosity  growing 
up  in  his  soul  toward  herself. 

Elizabeth  was  right  in  these  conclusions.  If 
he  had  put  his  feelings  into  words,  she  could  not 
more  accurately  have  understood  them.  The 
motives  which  had  induced  Vaughan  to  resign 
his  seat  in  Congress  and  accept  his  present  po- 
sition were  twofold.  A  question  was  coming  up 
during  the  present  session  upon  which  he  desired 
to  avoid  giving  either  speech  or  vote — he  saw 
clearly  that  it  would  be  full  of  complications  for 
the  future. 

Vaughan  comprehended  that  the  two  great 
political  parties  were  on  the  eve  of  a  crisis  out 
of  which  would  inevitably  spring  new  platforms 
— possibly  an  entirely  fresh  party.  He  had  no 
mind  to  involve  himself  just  now  in  any  impor- 
tant decision,  and  the  city  office  gave  an  admira- 
ble pretext  for  a  withdrawal.  But  there  was  an- 
other inducement  at  work — that  insane  greed  for 
money  which  seemed  only  to  increase  with  the 
growth  of  his  fortune.  The  ramifications  of  the 
potent  Ring  extended  to  this  office  also.  Vaugh- 
an knew  that  vast  sums  could  be  plundered — 
that  they  had  been  by  his  predecessor — without 
the  slightest  danger  of  incurring  condemnation 
or  even  inquiry.  So  he  found  patriotic  reasons 
for  accepting  the  position,  and  made  a  brilliant 
speech,  which  was  quoted  in  the  journals  from 
Maine  to  Georgia,  and  proceeded  to  plunge  both 
hands  into  the  public  coffers  without  delay. 

But  occupied  as  he  was,  his  passion  for  Natha- 
lie La  Tour  became  the  ruling  influence  of  his 
life — so  absorbing  that,  in  spite  of  his  ability  to 
reason,  to  regard  the  future,  it  would  have  led 
him  into  any  reckless  measure  which  she  might 
have  demanded. 

But  Nathalie  did  not  ask  or  want  this.  She 
enjoyed  the  new  excitement  that  his  society 
brought,  and  she  believed  herself  wildly  in  love 
with  him ;  and,  as  usual,  contented  herself  with 


dreams  and  theories,  whatever  the  world  might 
think. 

Short  as  the  time  had  been  since  Vaughan's 
finding  her  again,  there  was  already  plenty  of 
gossip  among  his  more  intimate  associates,  and 
the  Bohemians  were  greatly  enraged  by  the 
change  which  his  appearance  effected  in  Natha- 
lie's habits. 

Vaughan  absolutely  refused  to  have  any  thing  to 
do  with  the  troop.  He  irreverently  pronounced 
the  men  a  set  of  cads,  and  the  women  worse. 
Nathalie  was  somewhat  horrified  at  his  openly 
expressed  contempt  for  these  high-souled  creat- 
ures, but  she  would  have  given  up  a  great  deal 
more  than  their  society  for  Darrell's  sake. 

Then,  too,  he  brought  a  different  set  of  peo- 
ple about  her :  men  who  dressed  well,  who  could 
talk  agreeable  nonsense — had  an  odor  of  ele- 
gance, a  glint  of  jeunesse  dorde  in  every  thing 
they  said  and  did,  which  was  delightful  to  one 
side  of  her  capricious,  excitement-craving  nat- 
ure, however  much  in  theory  she  might  believe 
herself  attached  to  soul-intercourse,  aims  for  hu- 
man progress,  and  other  matters  equally  grand 
and  poetical. 

She  formed  the  acquaintance  also  of  two  or 
three  French  actresses ;  and  it  was  delicious  to 
talk  chiffons  and  have  perfectly  dressed  women 
by  her  side,  and  witty  speeches  and  brilliant 
repartees  flitting  about,  after  so  many  weeks 
of  aching  eyes,  caused  by  the  ill-assorted  colors 
with  which  the  Bohemian  sisters  had  vexed  her 
spirit,  and  the  constant  strain  upon  her  faculties 
from  listening  to  long-winded  poems  that  did  not 
contain  a  line  she  could  understand. 

Her  house  was  a  convenience  to  Dan-ell :  he 
could  there  indulge  his  love  of  high  play  with- 
out danger  of  discovery,  and  gather  about  him 
the  brilliant,  worthless  men  and  women  whose  so- 
ciety he  so  thoroughly  enjoyed.  Therefore  the  Bo- 
hemians were  furious,  though  wise  enough  not  to 
ruin  their  cause  by  expostulations  or  complaints. 
They  had  the  sense  to  comprehend  that  any  inter- 
ference would  altogether  deprive  them  of  their 
Queen.  And  Nathalie  was  as  ready  as  ever  to 
give  them  money — to  invite  them  to  dainty  sup- 
pers when  Vaughan  was  not  there.  Still,  they 
felt  themselves  injured,  and  were  the  first  to  give 
her  intimacy  with  this  man  a  coarse  name,  and 
assail  her  reputation  in  every  way  possible. 

Probably  in  neither  of  the  two  opposite  little 
circles  between  which  Nathalie  vibrated  was  there 
a  human  creature  (save  one)  who  believed  her 
other  than  a  bad  woman — employing  the  word  as 
people  do  where  feminine  sins  are  concerned  ; 
as  if  there  were  only  one  sort  of  evil-doing  which 
can  entitle  a  member  of  the  sex  to  that  name. 

Yet  Vaughan's  passion  had  met  with  no  other 
reward  than  tenderness  and  sympathy — sympa- 
thy for  the  dismal,  thwarted  life  whose  dreari- 
ness he  had  painted  to  her  in  such  glowing  col- 
ors. The  people  about  them  believed  that  he 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


was  her  lover,  and  Darrell  felt  himself  ridiculous 
in  his  own  eyes  at  the  position  in  which  he  was 
placed.  Nathalie  would  talk  sentimental  non- 
sense to  any  extent ;  she  would  weep  at  the 
cruel  destiny  which  had  separated  them — enjoy 
a  melodramatic  scene,  and  rave  and  rant  like  a 
second  Juliet ;  but  she  stopped  there. 

It  was  not  calculation;  it  was  not  that  she 
doubted  the  strength  of  her  love ;  it  was  not  re- 
spect for  any  law  human  or  divine— she  gloried 
in  believing  herself  above  the  reach  of  dull 
prejudices  and  senseless  creeds.  Still,  neither 
Vaughan's  passionate  pleadings,  her  own  weak- 
ness, nor  the  fear  of  losing  him — and  he  some- 
times threatened  her  with  that  penalty — were 
able  to  carry  this  woman,  reckless  and  abandon- 
ed as  the  world  believed  her,  one  step  beyond 
what  society  calls  "flirtation,"  and  permits  its 
devotees  to  indulge  without  scruple. 

Nathalie  could  not  argue  the  matter  in  her 
mind — she  was  too  inconsequent,  too  frivolous ; 
but  the  fact  was  there.  The  more  she  became 
convinced  of  the  power  of  her  own  affection,  the 
more  completely  heart  and  fancy  went  out  to- 
ward this  man,  the  more  did  she  retreat  from 
a  position  which,  theoretically,  she  boldly  ad- 
vanced in  her  books. 

It  was  natural  enough  that  no  information 
should  reach  her  whereby  she  could  have  con- 
nected Elizabeth  Crauford  with  the  tiresome, 
commonplace  creature  that  she  pictured  Vaugh- 
an's wife  to  be.  The  Craufords  were  not  a 
Knickerbocker  family — Elizabeth  had  never  lived 
in  New  York  before  her  marriage  ;  and  among 
the  men  whom  Darrell  introduced  to  Nathalie 
there  probably  was  not  one  acquainted  with  Mrs. 
Vaughan's  maiden  name.  Of  course  there  was 
no  possibility  of  the  two  women  meeting,  unless 
it  might  be  at  the  theatre  or  opera,  and  this  sea- 
son Elizabeth  seldom  went  to  places  of  amuse- 
ment. 

At  the  time  Nathalie's  book  gained  its  brief 
notoriety,  Elizabeth,  attracted  by  the  name  of 
her  former  acquaintance,  had  tried  to  read  the 
story ;  but  its  rehash  of  the  Simonian  doctrines 
was  not  even  redeemed  by  the  great  genius  which 
has  given  an  unenviable  celebrity  to  certain 
among  the  leading  French  writers,  and  Elizabeth 
flung  it  aside  with  a  sigh,  and  a  feeling  of  pity 
for  the  poor  girl,  whom  she  had  always  remem- 
bered with  kindness  and  sympathy. 

So,  while  Vaughan's  infatuation  became  so 
well  known  that  even  Elizabeth's  world  caught 
up  the  story,  she  remained  ignorant  of  Nathalie's 
presence  in  New  York.  She  was  not  a  person 
to  whom  her  most  intimate  friends  could  bring 
a  hint  that  might  awaken  any  suspicion  in  her 
mind  where  her  husband  was  concerned.  What- 
ever her  troubles,  they  were  sacred.  She  would 
never,  under  any  circumstances,  be  guilty  of  that 
most  contemptible  weakness  a  married  man  or 
woman  can  betray — the  putting  griefs  into  words, 


and  permitting  those  about  to  share  the  pain  by 
so  much  as  an  expression  or  look  of  sympathy. 

The  winter  dragged  by  ;  it  could  be  of  no  serv- 
ice to  any  human  being  to  detail  its  records. 
Day  by  day  the  path  grew  harder,  the  darkness 
more  intense.  Elizabeth  tried  to  cling  to  her 
faith ;  tried  to  endure ;  tried  to  silence  the  bit- 
ter wail  of  her  heart,  which  moaned  ceaselessly 
— "  How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long !" 

There  were  such  employments  as  she  could  find 
for  herself:  the  round  of  visits  and  society  du- 
ties ;  and  that  was  all  she  had  to  fill  up  her  life. 

At  last  some  unwise  writer  in  a  prominent  lit- 
erary journal  gave  vent  to  a  long  diatribe  against 
certain  bad  books,  thus  attracting  to  them  the 
very  attention  which  he  declared  unworthy  any 
clean-minded  man  or  woman.  Foremost  in  the 
bitter  criticism  stood  Nathalie  La  Tour's  works 
— a  brief  account  of  her  life — the  desertion  of  her 
husband — her  present  residence  in  New  York — 
her  absurd  title  of  "Queen  of  the  Bohemians." 
The  whole  thing  was  as  injudicious  and  uncalled 
for  as  possible,but  by  this  means  Elizabeth  learned 
that  Nathalie  was  near.  The  fact  could  be  of  no 
importance  to  her — she  could  do  the  woman  no 
good.  It  was  terrible  to  think  of  the  harm  the 
creature  was  perpetrating,  sad  to  recollect  how 
many  good  qualities  she  possessed,  and  to  what 
unworthy  use  she  had  devoted  them — but  nothing 
beyond  this  regret  was  possible. 

A  great  crisis  in  any  life  is,  oddly  enough, 
nine  times  out  of  ten  brought  about  by  causes 
which  seem  the  merest  trifles. 

Only  the  day  after  Elizabeth  had  been  reading 
that  review,  and  sorrowfully  recalling  the  quiet 
weeks  she  and  Nathalie  had  spent  in  the  pretty 
Swiss  valley,  she  received  a  letter  from  a  friend 
in  St.  Louis,  begging  her  to  attend  to  some  com- 
missions at  Madame  Dinner's,  the  famous  modiste 
of  the  time.  She  was  going  out,  so  she  drove  at 
once  to  the  establishment,  as  the  business  was 
connected  with  a  wedding  trousseau,  and  the  ar- 
ticles must  be  sent  immediately. 

Madame  Dimier  herself  was  condescending 
enough  to  attend  to  Mrs.  Vaughan,  and  could 
not  resist  tempting  the  rich  lady  by  the  display 
of  a  marvelous  dress  of  Point  d'Alen9on  lace, 
which  was  just  then  driving  half  the  society  wom- 
en of  New  York  mad,  not  only  by  its  loveliness, 
its  costliness,  but  by  the  history  connected  there- 
with. The  robe  had  been  manufactured  for  a, 
royal  marriage  which  never  took  place ;  it  >?as 
purchased  by  an  English  Duke  for  a  famous  Pa- 
risian actress — famous  rather  for  her  beauty  and 
adventures  than  her  talent.  Mademoiselle  P — 
appeared  once  in  the  dress  on  the  stage  of  the 
Gymnase.  The  next  week  she  died  suddenly — 
every  body  must  remember  the  story.  Her  cred- 
itors seized  upon  her  effects,  and  this  wonderful 
robe  had  been  sent  across  the  ocean  as  a  mat- 
ter of  speculation,  and  the  price  set  upon  it  was 
eighteen  thousand  dollars. 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


145 


Elizabeth  stood  for  a  while  examining  the 
dress,  full  of  the  fancies  which  its  history  must 
have  roused  in  any  imaginative  mind.  .Then 
she  half  smiled  to  perceive  that  she  had  gone 
leagues  away  from  romance,  and  was  simply 
wishing  the  thing  could  be  converted  into  hard, 
prosaic  cash. 

One  of  the  hospitals  in  which  she  was  inter- 
ested needed  money  sorely,  and  Darrell  had  ab- 
solutely refused  to  give  her  even  a^uarter  of 
the  sum  she  desired.  He  assured  her  that  his 
available  funds  were  at  the  time  required  in  his 
affairs,  and  would  listen  neither  to  persuasion 
nor  argument. 

She  finished  her  business,  and  went  home.  A 
week  later  she  received  a  telegram  from  St.  Lou- 
is ;  there  was  some  mistake  in  regard  to  the  pur- 
chase— a  shawl  or  a  scarf  or  other  important  trifle 
had  been  forgotten.  Would  Mrs.  Vaughan  have 
the  goodness  to  attend  to  the  matter  at  once  ? 
Of  course  she  went  immediately,  wondering  a 
little,  as  the  most  patient  human  being  might 
have  been  excused  for  doing,  that  it  had  not  oc- 
curred to  the  excited  purchaser  of  wedding  finery 
to  telegraph  directly  to  the  modiste. 

On  her  way  out  of  the  place  she  chanced  to  hear 
Madame  informing  certain  customers,  desirous 
of  seeing  the  famous  lace  dress,  that  it  had  been 
sold  that  very  morning ;  but  Madame  either 
could  not  or  would  not  tell  by  whom  it  had  been 
purchased. 

She  paid  several  necessaiy  visits,  which  de- 
tained her  so  long  that  it  was  growing  dusk 
when  she  returned.  As  she  drove  up  to  the 
1.  mse,  Vaughan  was  just  entering  ;  they  had  not 
met  for  two  days.  He  spoke  politely  enough  in 
the  presence  of  the  footman  who  opened  the  door, 
and  they  passed  on  into  the  library  together, 
talking  of  the  first  trifle  which  suggested  itself 
— the  weather,  the  dampness.  Both  had  that 
consciousness  of  the  eager  eyes  and  ears  watch- 
ing every  look  and  gesture  which  becomes  ha- 
bitual to  all  who  attempt  to  keep  a  show  of  de- 
cency in  their  married  lives  when  cruel  secrets 
lie  under  the  surface.  Not  that  the  eyes  and 
ears  ever  are  deceived,  or  that  the  pretenders 
believe  them  to  be ;  but  somehow  playing  the 
sorry  farce  is  a  kind  of  comfort — an  absolute  ne- 
cessity, in  fact,  so  long  as  people  have  a  care  to 
stretch  the  slightest  shred  of  illusion  across  the 
loathsome  reality. 

Then  another  domestic  Argus  followed  them 
into  £he  room  with  such  letters  and  cards  as  had 
arrived.  Vaughan  took  his  share,  and,  still  un- 
der the  control  of  the  eyes,  civilly  handed  Eliza- 
beth's portion  to  her. 

The  man  went  out.  Elizabeth  sat  down  by 
the  table,  and  read  her  notes — nothing  of  impor- 
tance— then  remained  looking  at  Vaughan,  as  he 
stood  by  the  fire-place  busy  with  his  letters. 

"  I  shall  not  dine  at  home,"  he  said,  as  he  fin- 
ished the  perusal  of  his  correspondence. 
K 


There  was  nothing  surprising  in  this  announce- 
ment ;  he  seldom  dined  at  home  nowadays  un- 
less there  were  invited  guests.  Whether  he  took 
his  meals  at  his  club,  whether  he  accepted  invita- 
tions in  which  she  had  no  share,  Elizabeth  never 
asked. 

He  was  going  out ;  she  wanted  to  speak  to 
him  first.  The  managers  of  the  hospital  had 
written  to  her  again — they  were  in  great  difficul- 
ty. She  had  been  put  to  heavy  expenses  in  va- 
rious ways  of  late,  and  for  the  time  had  no  further 
means  in  her  possession.  But  it  occurred  to  her 
that  Vanghan  might  be  willing — if  he  would  give 
her  nothing  —  to  advance  the  sum  she  required 
upon  dividends  which  would  come  to  her  in  the 
course  of  a  few  months.  She  had  the  matter 
much  at  heart,  and  could  not  forbear  this  last 
effort. 

"  Will  you  wait  a  moment,  please  ?"  she  said, 
nervously :  she  never  could  help  being  nervous 
when  the  necessity  for  any  discussion  in  regard 
to  money  arose. 

""What  do  you  want  ?"  he  asked,  coldly. 

He  had  crossed  the  room  before  she  spoke. 
He  stood  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  and 
looked  at  her.  How  rapidly  his  face  was  chang- 
ing! what  a  worn,  strange  look  it  had!  how 
bright  and  feverish  the  eyes  were !  She  noticed 
this  with  a  certain  wonder.  It  was  something 
more  than  the  effects  of  dissipation :  it  was  the 
expression  of  a  man  consumed  by  some  strong, 
overmastering  passion.  This  thought  flitted 
rapidly  through  her  mind  even  while  answering 
his  question. 

"I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  again  about  that 
matter — " 

"  I  told  you  I  had  no  money  to  waste  on  such 
folly, "he  interrupted.  "We  live  at  the  most 
expensive  rate — forty  thousand  a  year  would  not 
cover  our  expenses — I  have  got  mixed  up  in  those 
companies.  I  can't  give,  and  I  won't." 

So  gladly,  long  since,  she  would  have  reduced 
their  princely  establishment  to  a  more  reasonable 
footing,  but  this  Vaughan  would  not  permit;  he 
was  lavish  and  reckless  where  show  and  luxury 
were  concerned. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  ask  you  to  give  it,"  she 
replied,  quietly,  with  a  certain  chill  disdain  in 
her  voice,  for  strive  as  she  might  against  her 
faults  she  got  nowhere  near  perfection.  "I 
want  to  borrow  it — I  shall  have  funds  enough  in 
April.  If  you  would  get  me  the  four  thousand 
dollars  upon  some  of  my  stocks — " 

"  Oh,  if  you  could  ever  come  down  enough 
from  poetry  to  be  practical,  and  show  a  little 
common-sense !"  he  broke  in.  ' '  Borrow  ? — and 
a  miserable  sum  like  that  ?  What  do  yon  sup- 
pose people  would  think?  I  never  heard  any 
thing  so  ridiculous  in  my  life — even  from  you !" 

"You  are  right  to  call  it  a  miserable  sum," 
she  replied,  angry  now,  though  her  anger  only 
betrayed  itself  in  the  cold  scorn  of  her  voice. 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


"It  is  ridiculous,  too,  that  I  should  have  any 
difficulty  in  procuring  it.  You  are  right  there, 
also." 

"Now  you  mean  to  talk  ahout  your  accursed 
money,  I  suppose !"  he  exclaimed. 

"  I  never  have  done  so,  I  think,"  she  said. 

"But  it  is  never  out  of  your  mind  —  never! 
A  fine  use  you  would  make  of  it  too,  if  it  were 
in  your  power !  You  keep  a  set  of  harpies  about, 
and  let  them  plunder  you.  It's  just  your  vanity, 
your  desire  for  notoriety,  which  is  at  the  bottom 
— that,  and  a  wish  to  annoy  me. " 

She  might  have  known  nothing  but  strife  and 
harsh  words  would  come  of  her  attempt ;  she  told 
herself  this.  An  angry  retort  rose  to  her  lips ; 
she  set  them  hard  together,  and  kept  silence. 

"Now  it  is  perfectly  useless  to  speak  of  this 
again !  Give — give — why,  I  am  always  giving ! 
My  name  is  on  every  list  of  charities  and  public 
schemes-r-" 

"When  there  is  any  glory  to  be  gained  by 
it,"  she  added,  as  he  paused. 

Repentance  came  as  soon  as  the  bitter  speech 
found  utterance  ;  but  it  was  too  late — the  words 
were  spoken. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  say  that,"she  continued, 
quickly,  though  it  required  a  powerful  effort  to 
make  the  admission.  "I  beg  your  pardon  — 
don't  let  us  quarrel  over  the  matter.  If  I  can 
not  have  the  money,  there  is  an  end." 

"  Always  an  end  when  you  have  done  your 
best  to  irritate  me  by  sneers  and  taunts.  Quar- 
vel  ?  Bah !  I'll  not  waste  my  time  by  talking  to 
you — I  can  spend  it  more  pleasantly. " 

He  went  quickly  out  of  the  room,  and  pres- 
ently she  was  summoned  to  her  solitary  repast. 
She  was  a  great  deal  alone  this  winter ;  they  gave 
frequent  dinners — Vaughan  had  insisted  upon  a 
couple  of  balls  ;  but  she  accepted  only  such  in- 
vitations as  it  was  impossible  to  refuse,  and 
appeared  in  public  just  enough  to  avoid  the  rep- 
utation of  singularity.  Of  late  Vaughan  had 
ceased  to  urge  her  to  go  out ;  he  had  grown  fond 
of  observing  her  peculiarities  —  of  talking  about 
them  before  others ;  and  when  he  talked  there 
was  something  in  his  face  which  fairly  startled 
her.  She  had  learned  to  know  that  Darrell 
Vaughan  never  did  any  thing  without  motive,  but 
what  his  reason  for  this  could  be  was  beyond  the 
reach  of  any  supposition  or  fancy. 

When  she  came  back  to  the  library,  after  din- 
ner, one  of  the  men  was  just  entering  with  coals. 
He  had  expected  to  finish  his  task  before  she  re- 
turned, but  to-night  she  was  too  miserable  even 
to  go  through  the  pretense  of  a  meal. 

"  Is  this  of  any  consequence,  ma'am  ?"  she 
heard  the  man  say,  as  he  ended  his  string  of  ex- 
cuses. 

He  had  picked  up  a  crumpled  paper  from  the 
hearth,  and  was  holding  it  toward  her.  She 
opened  it  mechanically,  and  turned  to  the  table, 
where  a  reading-lamp  stood. 


"DearV., — I  have  bought  the  lace  dress  as 
you  desired — sixteen  thou.  was  the  lowest  figure  ; 
I  have  put  it  to  your  account,  and  I  sent  the  robe 
at  once  to  la  belle.  I  am  afraid,  in  spite  of  all 
our  precautions,  your  part  in  the  matter  will  leak 
out — " 

That  was  what  Elizabeth  read  on  the  scorched 
page — read  so  far  without  thinking.  She  did 
not  look  further ;  she  crushed  the  paper  in  her 
hand,  and  stood  there  till  the  servant  had  left 
the  room.  Then  she  went  back,  and  thrust  the 
sheet  between  the  bars  of  the  grate.  She  recol- 
lected seeing  Vaughan  fling  the  letter  into  the 
fire — it  must  have  rolled  off  upon  the  hearth. 

He  had  bought  the  dress  ;  had  commissioned 
some  friend  to  make  the  purchase,  in  order  that 
his  own  name  might  not  appear ;  this  was  evi- 
dent enough.  Sixteen  thousand  dollars  paid  for 
that  worthless  thing,  and  he  had  refused  her  a 
quarter  of  the  sum ;  had  talked  of  embarrass- 
ments, of  the  cost  at  which  they  lived,  as  if  her 
extravagance,  her  reckless  tastes,  were  the  cause! 
Oddly  enough,  she  did  riot  at  the  time  view  the 
matter  from  the  side  which  would  have  been 
prominent  in  the  thoughts  of  most  wives.  Her 
soul  had  gone  so  far  from  any  possibility  of  con- 
tact with  this  man  to  whom  her  life  was  bound 
that  jealousy  had  grown  out  of  the  question.  As 
she  sat  by  the  fire,  thinking,  thinking,  or  walked 
up  and  down  the  room  when  some  sort  of  physical 
exercise  became  a  necessity — she  was  not  dwell- 
ing upon  the  object  her  husband  had  in  that  pur- 
chase, not  wondering  for  whom  the  robe  had 
been  bought — her  reflections  had  gone  back  over 
the  misery  of  her  existence — its  emptiness,  its 
dreariness,  its  daily  torture  of  pin-pricks,  that 
deprived  of  all  dignity  even  the  current  of  dark 
tragedy  which  lay  under. 

The  next  day  she  did  not  see  Vaughan.  It 
chanced  to  be  a  night  when  they  gave  a  dinner- 
party, and  Elizabeth  and  her  husband  did  not 
meet  until  their  guests  began  to  arrive.  It 
proved  a  gay  enough  affair ;  Vaughan  was  in 
the  highest  spirits.  It  seemed  odd  to  Elizabeth 
to  sit  there  in  the  light  and  warmth — to  talk, 
laugh,  listen,  and  yet  have  a  feeling  of  such  un- 
reality through  it  all ;  her  heart  shivering  with 
a  dreary  chill. 

Every  body  had  engagements ;  coffee  was 
served,  and  the  people  took  leave  directly  after, 
Vaughnn  departing  among  the  guests.  There 
was  no  one  left  but  an  elderly  gentleman  with 
whom  Elizabeth  was  a  great  favorite.  He  re- 
mained, perhaps  because  he  understood  some- 
thing of  the  dreariness  of  her  life,  and  pitied  her; 
perhaps  because  he  had  no  engagement,  and  the 
drawing-room  was  bright  and  comfortable — any- 
way, he  stayed.  Conversation  was  an  effort : 
Elizabeth  suddenly  recollected  that  it  was  the 
first  night  of  a  new  opera  troupe  ;  she  might  in- 
vite her  visitor  to  go  with  her  to  listen  to  the  last 
acts,  and  BO  escape  the  need  of  talk. 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


147 


They  did  not  reach  the  theatre  until  the  inter- 
lude between  the  third  and  fourth  acts.  As  they 
ascended  the  stairs  into  the  upper  lobby,  a  lady, 
accompanied  by  two  gentlemen,  brushed  so  close 
past  Elizabeth  that  their  dresses  fairly  touched. 
She  had  passed  on  before  Mrs.Vaughan  could 
catch  a  sight  of  her  face,  but  the  first  glance  at 
the  costume  would  have  been  enough  to  make 
Elizabeth  avoid  doing  so.  The  woman  wore  a 
moire'  silk  of  a  golden  green,  so  vivid  that  it  was 
as  showy  and  voyante  as  scarlet  could  have  been  ; 
over  this  swept  the  folds  of  the  lace  robe  she  had 
seen  the  week  before — the  robe  purchased  by 
her  husband. 

Mr.  Howland  was  speaking :  she  heard  her- 
self answer — walked  steadily  on. 

The  curtain  had  risen  when  they  entered  the 
box.  Elizabeth  had  not  been  six  times  in  the 
house  during  the  whole  winter.  Music  was  often 
a  positive  pain  to  her  at  this  period.  More  than 
once  she  had  been  obliged  to  leave  the  theatre. 
It  was  as  if  a  voice  of  unutterable  anguish  called 
to  her  in  every  measure  the  orchestra  played,  in 
every  note  that  was  sung,  while  some  voice  away 
down  in  her  soul  moaned  in  answer.  It  was 
fanciful — absurd ;  but  she  had  grown  full  of 
fancies  and  absurdities,  and  could  not  struggle 
against  them.  It  was  the  same  to-night.  She 
wondered  why  she  had  tried  not  to  listen ;  would 
have  risen  and  gone  away,  only  that  she  deter- 
mined to  yield  no  further  to  a  folly  of  which  she 
felt  ashamed. 

The  curtain  fell.  Mr.  Howland  perceired 
some  friend  to  whom  he  wished  to  speak,  and 
left  her  for  a  few  minutes.  Elizabeth  had  kept 
in  the  shadow  of  the  box  draperies,  and  had 
asked  her  good-natured  old  friend  to  do  so. 

"I  am  stupid  and  dull,"  she  said,  "and  I 
don't  want  any  men  to  come  and  make  me  talk. 
You  don't  mind  my  stupidity,  but  I  can't  trust 
to  other  people's  leniency." 

And  the  elderly  bachelor  thought  her  smile 
the  saddest  sight  he  had  seen  in  many  a  day, 
and,  knowing  Darrell  Vaughan  tolerably  well, 
wondered  why  this  beautiful  creature  should 
have  met  with  so  dismal  a  fate.  For  she  was 
very  beautiful,  this  weary  Elizabeth.  The  great 
eyes  were  dark  and  soft  as  deep  waters  where 
the  stars  are  shining.  Her  face  had  lost  the 
first  roundness  and  bloom  of  youth,  young  though 
she  was,  but  hers  had  always  been  a  countenance 
whose  beauty  depended  more  on  expression  and 
delicacy  of  feature  than  upon  its  coloring.  She 
appeared  older  than  her  age — one  would  have 
said  a  woman  of  twenty  six  or  seven.  It  was  a 
countenance  that  possessed  a  language  not  easy 
to  understand  —  untranslatable  to  many,  who 
would  have  decided  that  it  looked  haughty,  cold, 
and  unsympathetic.  But  those  were  the  fools 
and  blind — it  was  all  written  on  that  melancholy 
face.  The  whole  record  of  her  disappointed 
youth  was  there  ;  the  blighted  hopes,  the  thwart- 


ed dreams,  the  controlled  passion  and  imperi- 
ousness,  the  effort  at  patience — aye,  even  to  the 
earnest  faith  which  alone  supported  her,  and  gave 
to  eyes  and  brow  the  marvelous  light  which 
struck  the  dullest  with  a  vague  wonder  as  to 
what  its  signification  might  be. 

After  Mr.  Howland  had  gone,  she  sat  trying 
to  occupy  her  mind  with  any  trifle  that  she 
could  call  up.  A  passing  excitement  in  a  box 
nearly  opposite  attracted  her  attention — several 
men  entering  at  once — laughter  and  conversation 
louder  than  one  would  have  expected  in  such  a 
place. 

In  the  front  of  the  loye  sat  a  lady — the  gleam 
of  jewels  on  her  neck  and  in  her  hair.  She  was 
fluttering  a  fan ;  her  hands  moved  in  pretty 
gestures,  which  reminded  Elizabeth  of  the  wom- 
en iii  Southern  climes  across  the  sea. 

Something  in  the  figure,  the  attitude,  sudden- 
ly struck  her  with  a  strange  sense  of  familiarity. 
Her  opera-glass  lay  beside  her  on  the  cushion ; 
she  took  it  up,  and  from  the  safe  screen  of  the 
curtains  looked  out  again ;  then  her  hand  dropped 
slowly  into  her  lap. 

She  had  seen  Nathalie  La  Tour,  talking, 
laughing,  full  of  animation — prettier,  more  be- 
witching than  of  old.  But  this  was  not  all :  the 
rich  lace  dress  she  wore  was  the  robe  that  had 
brushed  against  Elizabeth  a  little  while  before 
in  the  lobby — the  dress  purchased  by  Darrell 
Vaughan  only  the  day  previous. 

The  door  of  the  box  opened  again.  Elizabeth 
lifted  the  glass  anew,  and  looked  across  the 
house. 

Vaughan  had  entered  the  loge.  The  other 
men  made  way  for  him.  Nathalie  half  rose 
from  her  seat,  then  sank  back.  She  had  grown 
singularly  quiet ;  the  animation  of  her  manner, 
the  Southern  gestures,  all  these  had  left  her. 
But  Elizabeth  saw  her  face — saw  the  eyes  that 
still  had  a  sort  of  childish  eagerness  in  their 
depths — saw  the  smile  which  brightened  the 
features  into  positive  beauty ;  and  she  knew 
that  Nathalie  La  Tour  loved  the  man. 

Elizabeth  turned  away ;  she  could  not  bear 
to  look  again.  The  first  conscious  feeling  in  her 
mind,  the  first  tangible  thought,  was  a  sincere 
pity  for  this  woman,  whatever  she  might  have 
become — pity. 

There  are  many  men,  there  may  be  women, 
though  I  think  few,  who  will  declare  this  un- 
natural ;  but  it  was  all  that  Elizabeth  felt — pity. 
She  was  not  even  thinking  of  the  sin,  the  shame 
— positively  not  remembering  that  she  was  Dar- 
rell Vaughan's  wife — only  recollecting  what  Dar- 
rell Vaughan  was ;  and  she  pitied  this  ill-brought- 
up,  misdirected  creature,  whose  evil  destiny  had 
brought  her  to  so  sad  a  pass. 

Presently  other  reflections  came  as  she  leaned 
back  in  the  shadow,  hearing  vaguely  the  pleasant 
murmur  that  rose  about — a  gayety  and  excite- 
ment in  which  she  had  no  part — which  only 


148 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


surged  faintly  to  her  ears  as  she  sat  there  alone, 
just  as  the  pleasant  tumult  of  other  lives,  the  lives 
of  happy,  ordinary  people,  made  itself  audible 
through  the  dreary  stillness  of  her  own  ;  coming 
only  like  an  echo — nothing  real,  nothing  which 
she  could  grasp  and  hold  fast — nothing  she  could 
claim  in  all  the  interests  and  enjoyments  which 
were  so  freely  granted  to  them. 

Other  reflections  followed,  Harsh  enough,  an- 
gry enough,  but  this  had  been  the  first.  Eliza- 
beth could  not  close  her  eyes  to  facts  so  patent. 
Purity  is  not  innocence  ;  she  was  a  woman  and 
a  wife,  and  there  was  only  one  interpretation 
to  what  she  had  seen.  The  paragraphs  of  that 
harsh  review  of  Nathalie  La  Tour's  works  and 
life  recurred  to  her.  Elizabeth  understood  now 
the  allusions  they  contained ;  she  knew,  too,  that 
Darrell  Vaughan  was  the  man  indicated  in  the 
record  of  the  person  "who  had  so  bitterly  dis- 
appointed the  Bohemians  by  almost  depriving 
them  of  the  Queen  they  had  selected." 

She  could  scarcely  feel  shocked ;  first  and  last 
she  had  borne  too  much.  Blow  after  blow  had 
fallen  with  such  rapidity  that  she  seemed  incap- 
able of  poignant  sensations.  Only  cold  and  sick 
with  a  strange  feeling  of  abasement  and  degra- 
dation— as  if  she  had  been  unconsciously  dragged 
down  a  flowery  path  into  a  noisome  pit,  and  saw 
herself  lying  there  bound  hand  and  foot,  her  gar- 
ments stained,  impurity  and  loathsomeness  all 
about  her,  and  the  noble  face  which  had  lured 
her  on  suddenly  turned  into  the  gibing  counte- 
nance of  a  fiend  that  mocked  at  her. 

\Yhat  to  do ! — which  way  to  turn !  What  was 
duty  ?  How  far  did  vows  and  promises  bind  the 
soul  ?  What  could  be  expected  of  her  ?  Was 
there  no  mercy  among  men?  not  even  in  the 
God  she  had  prayed  to  and  believed  in  at  the 
worst  ? 

But  the  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Rowland  re- 
turned. The  curtain  had  risen  again  without 
her  knowing  it ;  the  tenor  and  soprano  were 
singing  one  of  the  most  beautiful  duets  of  the 
whole  opera — she  had  not  heard  a  note. 

The  old  bachelor  stood  quiet  behind  her  chair, 
believing  her  absorbed  by  the  music.  The  sound 
of  his  entrance  brought  her  back  to  the  present. 
She  caught  the  crash  of  the  instruments,  the 
tones  of  the  united  voices ;  it  was  like  heavenly 
music  striking  her  ears  from  the  impenetrable 
distance — flinging  its  echoes  down  into  the  black 
depth  where  she  lay  helpless. 

It  grew  unbearable ;  she  could  not  remain. 
She  rose — caught  up  her  cloak. 

"I  must  go,"  she  said;  "take  me  home — 
please  take  me  home." 

The  kind  old  man  obeyed  without  a  question, 
conscious  that  she  suffered,  wishing  he  had  pow- 
er to  aid,  but  feeling  that  in  the  pass  to  which 
life  had  brought  this  woman  not  even  the  re- 
lief of  human  sympathy  could  be  offered  or  re- 
ceived. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

HIS   VICTIM. 

IT  is  deep  in  December.  The  snow  lies  thick 
in  the  streets  of  Moysterville ;  the  mountains 
rise  about  it  grand  and  awful,  looking  like  gi- 
gantic icebergs  towering  above  the  white  level 
of  some  frozen  sea. 

Out  beyond  the  town  stands  a  great  pile  of 
gloomy  buildings,  with  walls  almost  as  thick  and 
strong  as  those  of  a  mediaeval  fortress,  with 
dreary  courts,  and  dark  passages,  and  grated 
windows.  Every  thing  is  stern  and  heavy  and 
grim,  as  if  the  place  itself  had  grown  sullen  un- 
der the  burden  of  sin  and  crime  which  makes  up 
the  record  of  those  who  from  the  four  corners  of 
the  earth  have  finally  met  here  in  dismal  com- 
panionship. 

In  a  long  room  on  an  upper  floor — a  bare, 
desolate  place,  though  neither  cold  nor  ill-lighted 
— sits  a  row  of  women,  each  bending  silently  over 
her  appointed  task.  They  are  binding  shoes.  Not 
one  of  them  appears  to  work  slowly  or  unwilling- 
ly. The  skillful  fingers  fly  just  as  rapidly  along 
the  tedious  seams  even  if  the  eyes  of  the  task- 
master chance  to  be  withdrawn  for  a  little.  Prob- 
ably to  each  one  of  the  ghost-like  company  the 
work  is  a  solace.  They  all  look  ghost-like  some- 
way, even  the  strongest.  There  are  a  score  of 
them — more  than  that ;  and  though,  perhaps,  no 
two  resemble  each  other,  there  is  a  dreadful  gen- 
eral likeness  running  through  the  whole  group, 
not  arising  entirely  from  the  similarity  of  dress 
or  occupation.  One  finds  it  difficult  to  tell  in 
what  the  resemblance  consists ;  but  it  is  there — 
one  feels  it :  it  is  a  part  of  the  shadow  which 
affects  the  very  walls  themselves — that  shadow 
of  sin  and  crime. 

Down  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room  sits  a 
woman  who  seems,  no  matter  how  diligent  the 
rest  may  be,  to  work  twice  as  fast  as  they;  She 
sits  perfectly  motionless,  save  for  the  swift  move- 
ments of  her  fingers — sits  so  for  hours  together ; 
and  yet,  paradoxical  as  it  sounds,  the  apathetic 
stillness  has  no  sense  of  quiet  in  it.  You  expect 
each  instant  to  see  her  spring  like  a  panther — 
rush  out  of  that  immobility  into  an  insane  fury. 
The  guardians  used  to  have  this  feeling  in  re- 
gard to  her;  the  women,  her  fellow-prisoners, 
have  it  always — they  catch  themselves  furtively 
watching  her  day  after  day.  But  the  outbreak 
never  comes.  She  is  a  model  of  orderly  con- 
duct, though  she  never  receives  praise  for  it. 
Nobody  can  help  feeling  there  is  something  dan- 
gerous in  the  creature — no  more  sense  of  security 
in  her  stillness  than  there  would  be  in  that  of 
the  panther  of  which  she  reminds  one. 

These  years  of  imprisonment  have  not  aged 
her  face.  It  is  paler,  thinner  than  it  was  the 
day  it  looked  at  Darrell  Vaughan  out  of  the 
prison  dock,  but  it  is  the  same  face  still.  The 
eyes  are  a  little  deeper  set,  a  little  more  sombre, 


ME.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


149 


as  if  the  inner  fire  which  lights  them  were  slowly 
consuming  the  soul  that  feeds  the  flame.  More 
hopeless  than  the  countenance  was  that  day  it 
could  not  grow,  but  there  is  a  certain  strength 
and  fixedness  of  purpose  and  will  which  it  lacked 
then.  This  may  come  from  the  fact  that  for  so 
long  she  has  been  unable  to  reach  either  narcotics 
or  stimulants,  but  it  does  not  seem  as  if  that  was 
wholly  the  reason.  She  looks  as  though  some 
strong  determination  were  keeping  her  alive — as 
if  it  would  continue  to  do  so  through  all  failure 
of  bodily  power ;  some  work  to  accomplish,  some 
vengeance  to  take — who  shall  say? — and  per- 
haps, after  all,  none  of  these. 

She  has  never  spoken  a  harsh  word  to  one  of 
her  companions,  and  yet  among  the  whole  set 
there  is  not  a  woman  but  fears  her.  She  seldom 
talks  at  all ;  that  may  be  at  the  bottom  of  their 
dread.  During  the  hours  of  recreation  the  oth- 
ers chatter  among  themselves — tell  stories  of 
their  misdoings ;  scoff  or  are  penitent  according 
to  their  natures — but  she  never  opens  her  lips  in 
regard  to  herself.  Several  of  them  know  about 
her,  the  old  nickname  clings  to  her  still,  but  the 
boldest  there  has  no  inclination  to  question  Mi- 
lady, or  rouse  the  nameless  spirit  they  have 
sometimes  seen  in  her  eyes,  though  it  finds  no 
utterance.  The  rest  have  friendships  and  en- 
mities, as  their  innocent  sisters  might  in  the 
ordinary  walks  of  life ;  but  Milady  has,  appar- 
ently, no  more  feeling  for  their  memories  or  their 
pains  than  if  she  had  been  a  ghost.  The  rest 
have  found  certain  little  interests  which  have  a 
pathetic  side  to  them.  One  woman  pets  a  lame 
chicken  that  lives  in  the  covered  court  where 
they  go  for  exercise  in  the  winter;  one  has  a 
familiar  in  the  shape  of  a  spider  that  dwells  in  a 
chink  of  the  window-sill  near  her  seat  in  the 
work-room.  Not  a  soul  among  them  that  does 
not  yet  show  human  capabilities  and  needs  just 
in  those  trivialities — all  except  Milady.  Nobody 
ever  saw  her  moved  but  once — that  was  soon  after 
her  arrival.  Those  who  were  here  when  she  came 
still  relate  the  story  to  each  new-comer  who  takes 
her  place  among  the  band  of  hopeless  ones. 

They  were  all  out  in  the  walled  inclosure 
where  they  walked  at  certain  hours  during  the 
pleasant  weather.  Milady  was  sitting  as  usual, 
dumb  and  apathetic,  on  a  stone  in  the  middle  of 
the  little  misery  of  a  garden  the  women  were 
allowed  to  cultivate.  Suddenly  a  child  of  one 
of  the  keepers  —  a  sick  baby,  being  carried  up 
and  down  in  the  sunshine  the  other  side  of  the 
wall — was  heard  to  cry.  The  next  thing  the 
women  saw  was  Milady  on  her  feet — rushing  to 
the  wall — beating  her  head  and  hands  against 
it  in  a  mad  frenzy  —  shrieking  unintelligible 
words,  as  if  she  had  lost  even  the  power  of  hu- 
man speech. 

The  keepers  came  and  carried  her  away. 
Weeks,  a  good  many  of  them,  passed  before 
she  appeared  among  the  women  again.  It  was 


known  that  she  had  been  ill — raving  in  a  brain 
fever,  from  which  the  doctors  had  no  idea  she 
could  recover.  But  she  lived  and  came  back, 
more  still  and  taciturn  than  before,  and  from 
that  time  until  the  present  there  has  been  no 
change. 

Here  she  is  in  her  place  to-day,  and,  as  usual, 
the  other  women  find  themselves,  every  now  and 
then,  watching  her.  There  always  seems  to  them 
something  unfamiliar  in  her  appearance ;  they 
never  grow  accustomed  to  it  as  they  have  done 
to  each  other. 

Suddenly  a  door  opens  noiselessly — there  is  a 
horrible  quiet  about  every  thing  that  happens  in 
this  place.  The  warden  enters,  and  he  and  the 
keeper  of  the  room  whisper  together  for  a  few 
seconds.  Milady  is  the  only  creature  there  not 
interested,  to  a  certain  degree  excited  —  the 
slightest  event,  if  it  be  only  a  footstep  at  an  un- 
usual time,  is  a  matter  of  importance  to  these 
poor  souls.  But  Milady  hears  nothing  —  does 
not  lift  her  head.  * 

Then  the  keeper  calls — "  Number  37!" 

Every  woman  starts  except  she  who  owns 
the  number.  Milady  is  "No.  37."  She  looks 
up  slowly ;  the  keeper  speaks  again.  She  lays 
her  work  on  the  bench  in  an  orderly,  methodical 
fashion,  and  walks  the  length  of  the  room,  nei- 
ther interested  nor  excited,  though  her  fellow- 
prisoners  are  ready  to  spring  out  of  their  seats 
and  cry  aloud  from  sheer  nervous  agitation. 

She  moves  slowly  down  the  chamber ;  the 
keeper  motions  her  to  follow  the  warden;  the 
door  closes.  Milady  has  passed  out  of  sight, 
and  not  one  of  those  women  who  have  been  her 
companions  so  long  will  ever  see  her  face  again 
in  this  world. 

She  follows  her  conductor  through  a  passage 
which  her  feet  have  not  traversed  since  the  day 
she  entered  the  prison,  down  a  flight  of  stairs, 
and  into  an  apartment  where  several  gentlemen 
are  seated.  She  stands  quite  still  near  the  door ; 
not  looking  at  any  of  the  group,  not  conscious 
even  that  their  eyes  are  fixed  upon  her.  Some- 
body is  speaking — she  does  not  notice  that  he 
addresses  her.  The  warden,  who  is  near,  nudges 
her  elbow  lightly,  and  she  hears  him  whisper — 
' '  Why  don't  you  listen  ?" 

If  she  has  had  any  thought  at  all  since  she 
left  the  work-room,  it  has  been  that  she  is  to  be 
removed  to  another  prison — no  possibility  beyond 
this  has  crossed  her  mind. 

But  the  gentleman  is  reading  a  paper  aloud ; 
he  is  reading  a  proclamation  of  pardon  from 
the  Governor  of  the  State  for  the  woman  who 
has  no  name,  even  in  the  prison  records,  except 
"Milady." 

They  are  all  looking  at  her ;  the  measured 
voice  has  ceased  to  read ;  there  is  an  instant's 
silence.  They  see  Milady  sway  to  and  fro  and 
put  her  hands  to  her  head.  They  think  she  is 
going  to  faint,  and  the  doctor,  who  is  among  the 


150 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


group,  comes  toward  her.  But  she  only  drops 
slowly  into  a  chair  which  is  behind  her,  and  sits 
motionless,  with  her  hands  still  pressed  to  her 
head.  They  bring  some  water,  but  she  pushes 
the  glass  away.  The  chaplain  feels  it  his  duty 
to  improve  the  occasion.  Several  times  during 
the  past  years  he  has  addressed  words  of  exhor- 
tation to  Milady,  but  he  might  as  well  have  talked 
to  the  great  door  of  the  prison  for  any  response 
he  received,  any  sign  that  his  warnings  or  coun- 
sels were  heard. 

He  tells  her  now  that  she  ought  to  be  very 
grateful  to  God  —  and  the  Governor.  He  has 
not  meant  to  put  the  two  so  close  together  in 
his  speech,  but  Milady  has  glanced  suddenly  up, 
and  her  eyes  have  startled  him  so  that  he  makes 
this  blunder.  The  other  men  forget  to  smile — 
they  are  watching  Milady  too.  So  the  chaplain 
l>egin$  again ;  he  means  to  advise  her  to  lead  a 
different  life,  to  employ  the  years  which  may  be 
left  in  repentance  for  the  past  and  endeavors  to 
make  her  peace  with  her  Creator.  To  his  utter 
confusion,  he  hears  himself,  instead  of  saying  a 
single  word  he  intends,  just  repeating  that  un- 
fortunate error.  But  he  can  not  stop ;  once 
more  he  has  advised  her  to  be  grateful  to  God 
— and  the  Governor. 

He  retreats,  and  whispers  to  the  person  near- 
est him — 

"I  think  she's  not  right  in  her  mind." 

If  he  were  to  follow  out  his  full  thought,  he 
would  suggest  a  similar  doubt  in  regard  to  him- 
self. He  has  been  a  finger-post  to  heaven  for  a 
quarter  of  a  century,  and  it  is  a  horrible  humilia- 
tion to  have  made  such  an  utter  failure  when  he 
has  expected  to  be  unusually  impressive  and  elo- 
quent. 

There  is  a  little  further  conversation  among 
the  gentlemen,  then  they  all  go  out  except  one. 
Launce  Cromlin  is  left  alone  with  the  woman 
whom  he  has  at  last  succeeded  in  liberating  from 
her  unjust  imprisonment.  The  case  will  not  at- 
tract any  especial  attention.  The  pardon  of  a 
convict  by  a  new  Governor  is  too  common  for 
the  newspapers  to  do  more  than  make  a  brief 
paragraph  in  regard  to  it.  The  new  Governor 
is  popular,  too.  A  few  of  the  opposition  journals 
•may  sneer,  and  observe  that  it  would  be  satis- 
factory to  the  public  mind  to  have  some  explana- 
tion of  this  extraordinary  step ;  but  in  fact  the 
public  mind  will  be  slightly  exercised  in  regard  to 
the  matter.  Events  of  a  startling  nature  follow 
each  other  too  rapidly  in  this  age  for  any  body, 
even  among  those  present  at  Milady's  trial,  to  re- 
member much  about  it  after  this  lapse  of  time. 

So  Cromlin  is  left  alone  with  the  woman.  He 
i>  not  laboring  under  the  same  difficulty  as  the 
parson ;  he  has  no  desire  to  improve  the  occa- 
sion ;  his  heart  is  full  of  pity  and  sympathy.  He 
goes  up  to  her  as  she  sits  leaning  forward  in  the 
chair,  her  head  drooped,  her  hands  crossed  over 
her  knees. 


"Do  you  remember  me?"  he  asks. 

She  starts  at  his  voice ;  stares  wildly  at  him 
for  an  instant. 

"You  came  to  see  me  in  the  jail,"  she  half 
whispers. 

"  Yes ;  I  am  Launce  Cromlin — you  would  not 
believe  it  then. " 

She  only  looks  stupefied — vacant. 

"You  hardly  realize  it  yet,"  he  says,  "but 
you  will  presently.  You  are  free — you  can  go 
away  as  soon  as  you  like." 

"  Go  away  ?"  she  repeats,  with  a  sort  of  dull 
wonder  in  her  voice. 

"Yes;  the  formalities  are  all  settled  —  the 
order  is  signed — you  are  just  as  free  to  go  as  I." 

She  gives  him  one  glance,  then  drops  her  head 
again. 

"Ten  years,"  he  hears  her  mutter;  "ten 
years!" 

She  presses  her  hands  to  her  forehead;  he 
knows  that  she  is  conscious  of  the  confusion  in 
her  faculties,  and  is  struggling  to  right  her 
brain.  He  perceives  what  might,  perhaps,  have 
escaped  the  chaplain,  in  spite  of  his  wisdom : 
the  creature  is  still  so  dazed  that  she  c:;n  only 
think  the  ten  years  of  her  allotted  imprisonment 
have  expired.  She  knows  it  is  not  so,  yet  she 
can  comprehend  in  no  other  way  the  fact  that 
she  is  free. 

"You  have  been  pardoned,"  Launce  says. 
"  That  was  the  meaning  of  the  paper  you  heard 
read.  It  is  more  than  four  years  since  you 
came  here." 

"What  do  they  let  me  out  for  now?"  she 
asks  suddenly.  Then,  before  he  can  speak,  a 
new  thought  comes,  and  finds  utterance  —  so 
puerile,  so  unexpected,  that  if  the  chaplain  were 
here  he  would  have  no  doubt  whatever  of  her 
helpless  insanity — "I  hadn't  finished  binding 
the  shoes." 

But  she  is  not  mad  ;  it  is  only  that  her  mind 
fixes  instinctively  on  this  petty,  familiar  thought, 
just  to  steady  itself.  You  shall  read  in  the  rec- 
ords left  by  men  who  have  spent  half  a  life  in 
prison  that  some  similar  slight  recollection  has 
been  all  they  were  capable  of  when  the  news  of 
freedom  came. 

"You  will  find  some  other  work  to  do,''  Launce 
says,  gently.  "You  will  be  glad  to  work,  will 
you  not  ? — to  have  a  home,  and  be  taken  care 
of,  and  helped  on  your  way  ?" 

Again  she  looks  at  him  in  dull  surprise. 

"  Say  that  over,"  she  half  whispers  ;  "  say  it 
slowly. " 

Launce  repeats  the  words. 

"  I  can't  make  it  mean  any  thing,"  she  mut- 
ters, in  a  still  lower  tone.  "  Sometimes  I've 
heard  the  women  say  I  was  crazy — do  you  think 
I  am  ?" 

"  No  ;  it  is  only  that  the  news  has  come  upon 
you  suddenly ;  you  can  not  realize  yet  that  you 
are  free — completely  free.7' 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


151 


"  I  thought  I  dreamed  it  !" 

She  says  this,  and  sits  looking  helplessly  ahout. 
If  he  can  find  some  strong  impulse  upon  which 
to  fasten  her  attention,  the  mist  will  pass,  and 
her  faculties  begin  to  act. 

"  You  had  a  child,"  he  says  ;  "  you  will  want 
to  find  her." 

A  sudden  spasm  distorts  her  features  —  her 
face  turns  a  deathly  bluish  white — she  groans 
aloud,  and  falls  back  in  her  chair,  pressing  her 
hand  to  her  bosom.  Launce  does  not  summon 
assistance  ;  he  brings  some  water,  forces  her  to 
swallow  a  little,  and  gradually  her  breath  returns. 
But  Launce  has  medical  knowledge  enough  to 
know  what  the  attack  means — the  woman  has 
heart  disease. 

Her  wasted  hands  twist  themselves  together 
in  her  lap — a  faint  dew  gathers  in  her  eyes — 
the  dull  cloud  lifts,  and  a  strange  gleam  of  the 
old  beauty  comes  back  to  her  face. 

"The  child,  the  child !"  The  words  are  al- 
most a  shriek.  She  presses  her  hands  hard 
against  her  mouth,  and  struggles  for  composure. 

"I  sha'n't  go  to  her,"  she  says.  "If  the 
child's  alive,  it's  with  a  good  woman — I've  no 
business  near  her." 

"Some  time  you  will  go,"  Launce  replies. 
"  You  are  young  yet ;  you  will  try  all  your  life 
to  redeem  the  past,  and  you  will  succeed." 

Instantly  her  face  becomes  hopelessly  sullen. 

"  I'll  strike  you  if  you  say  that  again !"  she 
cries,  with  a  return  of  the  old  ferocious  spirit. 

"  That  is  very  silly,"  says  Launce.  "  I  shall 
think  you  are  crazy  if  you  talk  in  that  way." 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  sighs,  with  a  sort  of  childish 
penitence.  Absurd  as  the  word  sounds  applied 
to  a  creature  like  her,  it  is  the  only  one  that  an- 
swers. ' '  I  forgot.  I  almost  thought  I  was  in 
the  court  again.  It  seems  a  hundred  years, 
and  yet  it  is  all  like  one  day  !  Four  years — did 
you  say  four  years  ?  Come  here — come  close — 
I  want  to  whisper." 

' '  What  is  it  ?"  Launce  asks,  bending  his  head. 

"  Does  he  know  ? — did  he  let  me  out  ?" 

"You  had  better  not  ask  any  questions  to- 
d:iy,"he  replies.  "I  am  going  to  take  you 
away  from  here  now." 

"Shall  I  be  shut  up  again?"  she  demands, 
apathetically. 

"No — try  to  understand.  You  are  as  free 
as  I  am.  If  you  will  let  me,  I  will  take  you 
where  you  will  be  kindly  treated — where  you 
can  rest,  and  when  you  are  strong,  and  able  to 
work,  something  will  be  found  for  you  to  do." 

"Let  me  think-— let  me  alone  for  a  minute — 
my  head  turns  ! " 

She  sits  for  a  few  seconds  with  her  hands 
clasped  over  her  forehead.  Presently  she  speaks 
again.  "  And  you  were  Launce  Cromlin  all  the 
time  ;  I  believed  it  after  you'd  gone." 

"  You  had  heard  my  name,  then  ?" 

' '  What  do  you  want  to  help  me  for  ?"  she 


continues,  without  noticing  his  question.  "Do 
you  know  I'm  the  worst  creature  in  the  world  ? 
You've  been  in  San  Francisco — didn't  you  hear 
about  Milady  ?  That's  me — I'm  the  woman." 

"I  know  I  am  very  sorry  for  you, "Launce 
answers ;  "that  is  all  you  need  care  about  now." 

"Darrell  Vaughan's  cousin!"  she  mutters. 
"Darrell  Vaughan's  cousin!  And  he  asks  if 
I'd  ever  heard  his  name  !" 

She  laughs,  though  she  shivers  from  head  to 
foot. 

"  Never  mind  about  him,"  Launce  says,  and. 
noticing  the  shudder  of  fear,  hastens,  if  possible, 
to  strengthen  her  dread  of  the  man,  and  thus 
keep  her  from  taking  any  step  toward  exposing 
him,  if  such  possibility  be  in  her  power.  "  I 
would  advise  you  never  even  to  mention  his 
name  to  any  human  being — don't  forget. " 

"I  won't,"  she  whispers.  "He'd  shut  me 
up — he'd  find  ways  and  means — I'll  be  too  wise 
for  that." 

An  expression  of  such  insane  cunning  bright- 
ens the  dreary  darkness  of  her  eyes  that  Launce 
begins  to  think  her  faculties  really  disordered-— 
perhaps  hopelessly  so. 

"You  must  not  keep  me  any  longer,"  he  ob- 
serves ;  "I  have  a  carriage  waiting  to  take  you 
away." 

"He'll  not  find  me? — he's  not  where  we  are 
going  ?" 

"No;  he  is  thousands  of  miles  off.  If  you 
keep  quiet,  he  will  not  even  know  you  are  out  of 
prison." 

"I  will,"  she  whispers;  "I  will.  You  are 
Launce  Cromlin — you'll  hide  me  safe." 

"You  will  be  perfectly  safe.  There  is  a  good 
woman  where  we  are  going  who  will  be  very 
kind  to  you." 

"  Where  is  it  ?"  she  asks  quickly. 

"  To  the  house  my  uncle  lived  in — " 

He  steeps,  more  puzzled  than  ever,  absolutely 
startled  by  the  look  of  triumph,  of  savage  joy, 
which  kindles  in  her  eyes. 

"  The  house  his  uncle  lived  in  !"  she  mutters. 
"Oh,  yes,  he's  Launce  Cromlin — I  believed  it 
after  he  was  gone." 

"When  I  went  to  see  you  that  time,  you 
would  not  tell  me  why  you  visited  my  uncle," 
Launce  says.  "You  seemed  to  think  that  Dar- 
rell and  I — ' 

She  puts  out  her  hand  to  interrupt  him ; 
draws  a  heavy  breath  ;  the  cunning,  frightened 
look  comes  over  her  face  again. 

"  Who  says  I  went  to  see  the  old  man  ?"  she 
returns,  irritably.  "  He's  dead,  and  can  tell 
nothing.  I  don't  know  you — do  you  hear  ?  I 
don't  know  any  thing  about  you  or  him  either !" 

Launce  can  not  decide  whether  she  is  in  mor- 
tal terror  of  Darrell  or  half  mad,  but  it  is  useless 
to  question  her  further.  Indeed,  the  old  shrink- 
ing has  come  back  to  his  mind  :  he  does  not 
want  her  to  make  revelations — they  could  avail 


152 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


nothing.  He  knows  enough — more  than  enough ! 
The  past  is  dead — let  its  secrets  lie ;  their  ex- 
posure could  only  fling  an  added  bitterness  over 
his  soul. 

A  faint  groan  from  Milady  rouses  him  out  of 
his  reverie.  He  sees  that  she  has  grown  terri- 
bly pale,  and  presses  her  hand  anew  on  her 
heart. 

"  You  suffer,"  Launce  says. 

"  I'm  used  to  it.  I  never  spoke  about  it ; 
somehow  it's  worse  tOiday,".she  replies,  brokenly. 

A  slight  convulsion  passes  over  her  counte- 
nance ;  she  groans  again,  and  this  time  sinks 
back  in  her  chair  completely  insensible. 

Launce  summons  the  doctor  and  the  matron. 
It  is  a  long  while  before  they  can  restore  Milady 
to  consciousness.  After  that,  they  are  obliged 
to  put  her  to  bed,  and  it  is  evening  before  she  is 
able  to  leave  the  prison.  At  Launce's  request, 
another  gown  is  provided  for  her.  He  thinks 
that  to  find  herself  divested  of  the  penitentiary 
uniform  may  help  her  to  realize  that  what  has 
happened  is  indeed  real,  for  on  waking  from  her 
swoon  she  seems  more  bewildered  than  ever. 

She  allows  them  to  do  what  they  please,  ask- 
ing no  questions. 

They  get  her  into  the  carriage — the  great 
gates  open  and  close  behind  her,  but  she  does 
not  appear  to  heed.  Her  strength  seems  to 
have  given  way  completely — she  has  not  even 
vitality  enough  left  to  understand  that  she  is 
free. 

Launce  takes  her  to  the  villa,  as  had  been 
agreed  upon,  and  places  her  under  good  Mrs. 
Simpson's  care.  Neither  Launce  nor  Mr.  Car- 
stoe  has  stayed  at  the  house  since  their  return 
to  Moysterville.  They  have  lodgings  in  the 
town  ;  to  both  of  them  it  has  seemed  impossible 
to  sleep  under  that  roof. 

Milady  is  ill  for  more  than  a  week,  and  the 
fiery-haired  Simpson  nurses  her  as  tenderly  as 
if  she  were  the  purest  and  greatest  lady  in  the 
land.  It  is  enough  for  her  to  know  that  Launce 
and  Mr.  Carstoe  are  sorry  for  the  woman.  She 
asks  no  questions,  and  has  no  time.  There  is 
only  one  sen-ant  in  the  house,  a  new-comer,  who 
does  not  even  know  who  the  sick  woman  is  that 
has  been  brought  there ;  so  Moysterville  has  no 
idea  that  Milady  is  at  hand,  and,  as  I  prophesied, 
Milady's  pardon  attracts  slight  attention  in  any 
way. 

Mr.  Carstoe  has  been  very  busy  since  his  re- 
turn, setting  Vaughan's  matters  in  complete  or- 
der. He  is  ready  now  to  resign  the  agency.  He 
has  lately  received  a  letter  from  Darrell,  ex- 
pressing surprise  at  his  hasty  departure,  dwell- 
ing lightly  on  Carstoe's  desire  that  he  would  ap- 
point a  new  agent,  adding  certain  insinuations 
about  ingratitude,  and  winding  up  by  the  offer 
of  an  increase  of  salary  and  percentage,  as  if  he 
supposed  that  would  settle  the  question. 

So  Mr.  Carstoe  has  now  to  write  that  he  has 


resigned  his  position,  put  Mr.  Vaughan  s  affairs 
in  the  hands  of  a  well-known  lawyer,  and  pro- 
poses before  long  to  leave  California.  It  is  dif- 
ficult to  frame  this  epistle.  Poor  Carstoe  is  so 
oppressed  by  the  awfal  secret  which  he  holds  in 
regard  to  the  man  he  once  loved  and  honored 
that  he  has  a  positive  sensation  of  guilt,  from 
which,  argue  as  he  may,  he  can  not  free  himself. 

He  is  talking  of  these  things  with  Launce  as 
they  sit  "in  his  room  this  evening — the  tenth  since 
Milady's  liberation. 

The  woman  is  much  better — able  to  sit  up. 
They  have  been  to  the  villa  to-night,  and  seen 
her.  She  is  taciturn,  but  not  sullen.  Launce 
thinks  her  mind  quite  restored,  though  he  fears 
the  effect  of  any  excitement,  and  has  been  care- 
ful to  talk  of  the  most  ordinary  matters  ;  indeed, 
he  has  ceased  to  think  she  could  throw  any  light 
upon  the  forgery  of  the  check.  Her  visits  to 
his  uncle  might  have  had  a  merely  personal 
motive — a  desire  to  revenge  herself  on  Darrell. 
Some  terrible  revelation  she  brought  with  her, 
that  is  certain.  Some  strong  fear  of  her  dis- 
turbed Darrell,  that  is  equally  sure,  else  he 
would  never  have  devised  the  plan  which  he 
carried  out  with  such  unwavering  cruelty.  But 
she  dreads  him  too  much  now  to  open  her  lips. 
The  long  confinement  and  this  mortal  disease, 
which  the  doctors  are  certain  must  end  her  life 
in  a  few  years,  have  tamed  the  old  savage  spirit 
and  broken  the  obstinate  will.  Launce  has  no 
fear  for  Vaughan  where  she  is  concerned. 

To-morrow  he  is  to  leave  Moysterville,  but 
this  fact  has  not  been  mentioned  to  Milady.  He 
proposes  to  visit  New  Orleans  for  a  while  before 
returning  to  New  York. 

"  I  think  every  thing  is  arranged  for  the  poor 
creature,"  he  says  to  Carstoe.  "Mrs.  Simpson 
will  take  care  of  her  until  she  is  strong  again, 
then  she  can  go  to  the  place  we  have  found — 
she  will  be  quite  safe.  She  can  earn  large  wages, 
and  lay  up  all  the  money." 

Milady  embroiders  in  the  most  wonderful 
manner  in  silk  and  gold  thread.  Weak  as  she 
is,  she  has  given  them  proofs  of  her  skill,  and 
Launce  has  already  procured  her  an  extensive 
order  for  the  working  of  altar-cloth  and  robes 
needed  by  a  Romish  church  in  San  Francisco. 

"  Later,  I  dare  say,  she  will  want  to  find  her 
child,  but  I  think  there  is  no  danger  of  her  fall- 
ing back  into  her  old  life." 

"  I  don't  .agree  with  you  about  her  being  alto- 
gether right  in  her  mind, "Mr.  Carstoe  observes. 
"  She's  quiet  enough,  though  ;  and,  indeed,  I 
think  the  poor  thing  can't  last  long  any  way.'' 

"So  much  the  better,  certainly.  It  is  the 
best  wisli  one  could  make  for  her.'' 

"Yes.  They  must  have  a  plan  up  yonder 
for  setting  the  errors  of  this  world  right,"  Mr. 
Carstoe  replies,  thought  fully.  "  It's  an  odd 
muddle,  Launce  Cromlin,  but  it's  good  to  hold 
fast  to  that  belief." 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


153 


"I  should  think  so,"  returns  Launce,  with 
his  pleasant  smile.  "  Well,  Carstoe,  we've  been 
able  to  set  some  part  of  a  great  wrong  right 
also." 

"  Yes,  thank  God  !  I  couldn't  rest — I  felt  as 
if  I  should  never  sleep  while  there  was  a  doubt. 
If  there  had  been  no  other  way,  I  must  have 
spoken — let  the  whole  out." 

"I  don't  feel  that  we  have  any  thing  to  do 
with  his  part  now,"  Launce  says.  "  The  wom- 
an is  free ;  after  all,  she  is  better  off  than  she 
was  before.  But  come,  we've  argued  the  whole 
question  more  than  enough.  We  shall  never  be 
certain,  either  of  us,  whether  we  are  doing  right. 
But  we  can't  expose  Darrell ;  nothing  but  the 
sternest  necessity,  the  impossibility  of  helping 
her  without,  would  have  made  us.  We  may 
both  be  wrong  ;  it  has  to  rest  so,  any  way." 

Then  they  get  round  to  the  question  of  the 
business,  and  the  letter  which  must  be  sent  to 
Vaughan. 

"I've  written  it  over  three  times, "-sighs  Mr. 
Carstoe.  "I  suppose  it  will  do  as  well  as  any- 
thing. I  want  you  to  hear  it." 

"I  am  listening,"  Launce  says. 

"First  I  wrote  that  I  was  not  strong,  was 
tired  of  California,  and  wanted  to  go  East ;" 
Mr.  Carstde  interrupts  himself  in  the  reading 
to  observe  :  "  but  I  couldn't  tell  any  untruths, 
or  make  any  excuses ;  there's  the  fact,  and  he 
must  be  satisfied  with  it." 

"  You  have  decided  to  go,  however  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  shall  take  what  I  have  saved,  and 
go  to  live  in  Albany  again  ;  it  was  home  to  me 
as  a  boy.  I  have  a  chance  of  employment — a 
bookkeeper's  place.  I  shall  do  very  well  Now 
let  me  read  the  rest  of  the  letter." 

"It  is  all  that  is  necessary,"  Launce  says, 
when  he  finishes. 

"Do  you  suppose  he  will  suspect  that  I  have 
found  out  any  thing  ?" 

"If  he  happen  to  hear  of  this  poor  woman's 
release,  he  may  ;  but  he  will  hold  his  peace,  of 
course  ;  you  will  never  be  asked  for  reasons. " 

"I  hope  I  shall  never  see  him  again, "sighs 
Mr.  Carstoe.  "  I  don't  think  that  he  can  per- 
secute Milady  any  further." 

"  Of  course  not ;  he  would  not  dare,  if  he  felt 
inclined  to  try.  The  whole  matter  is  at  an  end. 
We  shall  never  even  know  why  he  invented  that 
infernal  plot  for  shutting  her  up." 

"  I  did  think  she  knew  something — had  some 
hold  upon  him ;  but  there  seems  no  chance  of 
that." 

' '  No.  Perhaps  it  was  only  that  he  was  afraid 
of  her  watching  him — following  him  to  Europe 
and  preventing  his  marriage  ;  that  seems  more 
probable  than  any  thing  else. " 

"You  have  never  questioned  her?" 

"She  is  frightened  at  the  mere  mention  of 
his  name — at  least  it  seems  more  fright  than 
anger.  But  I  don't  want  to  know,  Carstoe  ;  it 


could  do  no  good.  Leave  him  and  his  secrets 
alone.  God  have  mercy  on  him,  is  all  I  can 
say. " 

"  God  have  mercy  on  him,"  repeats  the  other 
man.  "  But  the  judgment,  the  retribution,  it 
must  fall  sooner  or  later;  it  never  fails." 

"That  is  in  God's  hands  too, "says  Launcfc, 
"  and  we  must  leave  it  there." 

' '  Only  when  I  think  of  his  wife.  Ah,  that's 
the  strangest  consequence  of  the  law — that  the 
innocent  must  suffer  with  the  guilty." 

Launce  lifts  his  hand  warningly ;  he  has 
grown  very  pale,  and  his  voice  trembles  as  he 
answers — 

"Don't,  please ;  I  have  to  pat  that  part  out 
of  my  mind." 

He  rises,  and  walks  up  and  down  the  room  for 
some  time  in  silence.  Mr.  Carstoe  comprehends 
what  he  suffers,  and  is  conscience-stricken  at 
having  allowed  his  thought  to  find  voice.  There 
has  scarcely  been  a  mention  of  Elizabeth  during 
all  these  anxious  weeks ;  never  a ,  syllable  of 
confidence  has  passed  between  the  two ;  but  Car- 
stoe, in  his  odd  fashion,  understands  what  a 
beautiful  dream,  what  a  golden  hope,  was  strick- 
en out  of  Launce  Cromlin's  life  the  day  he  read 
— oh,  years  since — the  news  of  his  cousin's 
marriage. 

Presently  Launce  comes  back  to  his  seat,  and 
the  two  talk  of  other  matters — of  a  future  meet- 
ing in  New  York — of  Launce's  long-deferred 
journey  to  Europe,  which  will  take  place  in  the 
spring.  There  is  always  a  solace  in  work  to  a 
mind  like  his,  and  no  pain  would  be  insupport- 
able to  Launce  as  long  as  he  feels  that  he  is  not 
wasting  the  precious  weeks  and  months  which 
grow  so  rapidly  into  years.  There  is  so  much 
he  wants  to  accomplish — not  just  for  Fame's 
sake,  though  he  prizes  that  as  any  man  ought ; 
but  to  feel  when  the  end  comes,  and  the  great 
portals  open  into  another  sphere,  a  new  phase 
in  the  endless  cycle  of  existence,  that  he  has  not 
played  ill  his  part  here,  not  neglected  such  gifts, 
such  opportunities  of  usefulness,  as  this  earthly 
career  may  have  offered  in  its  course. 

It  is  late  at  night  before  they  separate,  and 
each  goes  to  his  bed-chamber  ;  each,  as  he  lays 
his  head  on  his  pillow,  feeling  a  sense  of  relief 
in  recollecting  that  the  anxieties  which  were  so 
incessant  and  so  torturing  during  that  long  sea- 
voyage  have  been  set  at  rest — Darrell  Vaughan's 
victim  is  free.  Not  a  night  since  Launce  brought 
her  forth  from  those  dreary  walls  but  this  thank- 
fulness has  been  the  last  waking  thought  in  t"he 
minds  of  both  these  men  ;  the  last  but  one — al- 
ways another  comes  after — a  petition  to  God  for 
mercy  on  a  woman  almost  more  to  be  pitied  than 
this  outcast — on  her  whose  fate  is  indissolubly 
knit  to  Darrell  Vaughan's. 

Out  in  the  villa,  too,  all  is  quiet  and  still. 
Mrs.  Simpson  sleeps  heavily  after  so  many  days 
and  nights  of  watching.  Milady  is  quite  her- 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


self  again  ;  able  to  leave  her  chamber — to  walk 
about ;  she  will  soon  be  as  strong  as  ever. 

In  her  room  only  bums  a  light.  The  woman 
is  standing  by  a  window,  and  looking  out  into 
the  star-lit  sky.  The  face,  wasted  and  worn, 
with  a  mere  spectre  of  its  wonderful  beauty  still 
clinging  about  it,  has  recovered  a  force  and  ener- 
gy which  it  has  not  exhibited  for  years.  She  may 
be  silent,  she  may  shroud  her  features  in  Launce 
Cromlin's  presence  under  a  veil  of  passivity, 
which  makes  him  doubt  whether  she  feels  or  re- 
members any  thing  with  keenness  ;  but  this 
woman  thinks  clearly,  consecutively ;  and  her 
brain  is  able  to  weave  its  plans — her  will  to 
carry  them  out. 

She  waits  in  her  chamber  till  the  little  clock 
on  the  mantel  strikes  midnight.  It  would  seem 
a  signal  she  had  given  to  her  own  soul.  As  the 
last  chime  dies  she  takes  up  the  lamp,  passes 
noiselessly  down  the  stairs,  and  enters  the  library. 

Of  what  is  she  thinking  as  she  stands  gazing 
straight  before  her  into  the  shadows  ?  Of  the 
day  she  held  her  last  meeting  with  old  Mr. 
Vaughan  in  this  room  ?  Of  a  later  meeting 
here  with  the  nephew  on  the  night  that  Mr. 
Vaughan  died  ? 

The  face  tells  nothing ;  the  very  eyes  look 
dead  and  cold. 

At  one  end  of  the  apartment  stands  the  cabi- 
net which  has  been  so  many  times  diligently 
searched  since  Edgar  Vaughan's  death.  She 
goes  to  It,  and  sets  the  lamp  on  the  floor  by  its 
side.  The  cumbrous  thing — almost  as  large  as 
an  organ — is  a  mass  of  wonderful  carving  and 
ornament.  Four  immense  scroll-shaped  legs 
support  the  ancient  affair,  which  the  strength  of 
a  dozen  men  would  hardly  suffice  to  lift. 

Milady,  on  her  knees,  holds  the  light  close  to 
u  panel  near  the  bottom  of  the  cabinet.  She 
takes  out  of  her  pocket  a  long  knitting-needle — 
the  restless  Simpson  yesterday  missed  that  needle 
from  her  work,  and  is  dreaming  about  it  at  this 
moment.  After  several  trials,  Milady  succeeds 
in  pushing  the  slender  steel  far  up  under  a  mass 
of  carved  flowers.  The  panel  flies  out  and  dis- 
closes a  drawer,  in  which  lie  folded  papers. 
These  Milady  seizes  and  hides  in  her  bosom, 
muttering — "I  saw  him  open  it.  I  thought 
afterward  I  was  crazy  to  hide  the  papers  here — 
but  they  have  kept  safe — they  have  kept  safe." 

Then,  noiseless  and  ghost-like,  she  creeps  back 
to  her  chamber,  and  the  old  house  remains  si- 
lent as  a  grave. 

Two  days  elapse  before  she  learns  that  Lannce 
C'romlin  is  gone;  but  she  asks  few  questions, 
though  she  looks  troubled  and  disappointed  at 
first.  When  she  is  alone  again  she  presses  her 
hand  to  her  bosom,  and  the  paper  hidden  there 
cra«:kles  under  her  touch. 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  she  whispers  ;  "  they  are 
safe." 
She  goes  soon  afterward  to  the  home  Launce 


has  provided  for  her — a  place  where  she  will  be 
perfectly  secure  should  Darrell  Vaughan  make 
any  attempts  to  discover  her  whereabouts. 

Weeks  go  by — drift  on  to  spring.  Even 
Mr.  Carstoe  has  left  California.  One  day  news 
comes  to  Mrs.  Simpson  that  Milady  has  disap- 
peared. She  had  taken  the  sum  gained  by  her 
work — and  never  woman  toiled  as  Milady  did — 
and  is  gone. 

Mrs.  Simpson  is  troubled  and  anxions,  but  is 
obliged  to  wait,  for  Mr.  Carstoe  has  not  yet  sent 
her  his  address,  and  she  does  not  know  where  to 
send  information  either  to  him  or  Launce  Cromlin. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 
THE   GIANT'S   CASTLE. 

IT  was  a  beautiful  February  day ;  every  trace 
of  snow  had  disappeared ;  the  air  was  balmy 
and  soft,  with  promises  of  spring  —  promises 
which  the  fickle  goddess  would  be  sure  to  for- 
get by  the  time  March  arrived,  as  in  the  matter 
of  pledges  and  vows  she  resembles  the  order  of 
human  beings  who  "protest  too  much." 

But  it  was  lovely  weather,  and  useless  to  pro- 
ject one's  soul  into  the  future ;  better  to  enjoy 
it,  as  we  do  the  pleasant  mood  of  some  friend 
troubled  by  an  uncertain  temper,  without  ques- 
tioning. 

Mrs.  Murray  seldom  got  out  of  the  house,  ex- 
cept when  obliged  to  go  to  the  shop  which  gave 
her  work.  To-day,  however,  Meg  persuaded 
her  that  it  would  be  delightful  to  undertake  a 
long-promised  journey  to  the  upper  part  of  town, 
where  lived  an  old  Scotch  woman  whom  they 
visited  two  or  three  times  a  year.  The  street- 
cars— that  blessed  modern  invention  which  puts 
"  a  carriage-and-pair  "  at  the  service  of  the  poor 
and  ailing — set  them  down  within  a  short  dis- 
tance of  their  destination. 

But  to  Meg  the  ride  was  the  chief  pleasure, 
for  she  found  slight  entertainment  in  their  host- 
ess's room  after  she  had  exhausted  the  pictorial 
resources  of  an  old  Bible,  and  worn  out  her  pa- 
tience trying  to  persuade  the  misanthropic  black 
cat  who  dwelt  on  the  warmest  corner  of  the 
hearth  to  play  with  her. 

"Meg,"  said  Mrs.  Murray  at  last,  noticing, 
with  her  usual  thoughtfulness,  that  the  child  be- 
gan to  look  weary  of  her  efforts  to  amuse  her- 
self, "  I'm  thinkin'  pnss  is  like  Mrs.  MacLean 
and  me,  my  woman — she's  outlived  her  playin' 
days.  But  ye  may  walk  in  the  square,  if  ye'll 
tak'  good  heed." 

"  And  may  I  go  over  to  the  Reservoir?" asked 
Meg,  ready,  like  any  other  human  being,  to  de- 
mand an  ell  when  an  inch  was  granted. 

"  Yes,  if  ye'll  be  sure  to  mind  the  carriage? 
at  the  crossings.  Ye'll  be  back  at  the  end  o' 
the  hour  ?" 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


155 


Meg  promised,  and  decided  to  leave  the 
square  for  a  future  day,  when  the  trees  should 
be  in  leaf,  and  flowers  in  blossom  that  could  be 
looked  at,  even  if  touching  them  must  remain 
an  unattainable  bliss.  To  walk  about  under  the 
shadow  of  the  lofty  walls  that  shut  in  the  Reser- 
voir was  a  pleasure  which  made  these  visits  to 
Mrs.  MacLean  something  to  dream  of  in  advance 
and  long  afterward,  where  Meg  was  concerned. 
The  great  mass  of  masonry  might  look  prosaic 
enough  to  most  people  :  it  entranced  Meg  as 
much  as  ever  a  ruined  castle  on  the  Rhine  did  a 
poet.  Jean  Murray,  unconscious  as  she  was  of 
possessing  imaginative  gifts,  had  a  rare  talent 
for  story-telling.  Meg  never  went  to  sleep  with- 
out a  wonderful  story.  She  was  familiar  with 
all  the  fairy  tales  that  have  been  sacred  history 
to  children  for  centuries,  and  believed  them  just 
as  implicitly  as  those  out  of  the  Bible  which 
were  reserved  for  Sundays.  Indeed,  she  some- 
what confused  matters,  as  many  a  small  per- 
sonage has  done  before,  and  often  pictured  one 
of  her  pet  elfin  kings  in  Joseph's  gorgeous  coat 
of  many  colors,  and  mixed  up  fairy -land  and 
Eden  in  a  fashion  that  would  have  horrified 
Aunt  Jean's  natural  enemies — "  the  district  vis- 
itors." And  almost  the  next  best  thing  to  find- 
ing the  road  to  the  kingdom  of  the  fairies — a 
feat  Meg  by  no  means  despaired  of  if  she  could 
only  get  fuirly  out  into  the  broad,  green,  tree- 
shadowed  country  of  which  she  had  caught  oc- 
casional glimpses  on  bright  summer  days — were 
these  expeditions  to  the  Reservoir.  Meg  had 
no  doubt  whatever  that  these  great  walls  hid  a 
notable  giant  who  figured  in  one  of  Aunt  Jean's 
narratives — a  giant  who  bore  no  family  likeness 
to  the  generality  of  those  wicked  old  fellows  that 
infest  the  realm  of  Fable.  This  'giant  was  as 
kind  and  gentle  as  he  was  strong,  and  helped 
princes  to  their  rights,  and  screened  beautiful 
princesses  from  their  foes,  showered  costly  gifts 
upon  good  children  with  a  lavish  hand,  and  was 
altogether  the  sort  of  giant  one  would  be  very 
glad  to  meet  and  propitiate. 

So  Meg  gained  the  broad,  quiet  street — walked 
on  past  Sixth  Avenue — past  Broadway — and  came 
in  sight  of  the  giant's  castle.  When  she  was 
tired  of  staring  up  at  the  frowning  height,  and 
fancying  that  she  heard  the  sound  of  the  giant's 
tread  and  the  voice  of  the  Princess  Thelusia 
from  within,  there  was  a  convenient  deep  door- 
way on  the  Fifth  Avenue  side  where  she  could 
sit  and  watch  the  carriages  and  the  horsemen 
dash  past,  and  the  beautifully  dressed  ladies 
saunter  along  the  sidewalk,  and  find  the  real 
world  about  her  nearly  as  marvelous  as  the  fair 
"\Vonder-land  familiar  to  her  childish  fancies. 

She  was  to  have  a  whole  hour  in  the  shadow 
of  the  giant's  castle — and  an  hour  is  a  lengthy 
period  either  for  pleasure  or  pain  at  Meg's  age. 
The  great  clock  in  the  church-tower  farther  down 
the  avenue  had  struck  two  as  she  neared  the 


walls.  Meg  had  so  long  to  live  before  that 
hoarse  voice  would  call  again  that  it  was  not 
necessary  to  think  about  its  warning.  She  was 
a  conscientious  little  soul,  however,  and  as  soon 
as  the  first  chime  sounded  would  have  set  out 
on  her  return,  even  if  the  giant  and  the  princess, 
the  elf  in  Joseph's  gorgeous  coat,  and  the  whole 
train  of  brilliant  creatures  had  appeared  in  a 
body  and  tempted  her  to  remain. 

After  Meg  had  been  there  a  great  while,  and 
had  begun  to  think  she  must  listen  for  the  bell 
(as  if  one  of  the  seven  sleepers  himself  could 
have  failed  to  be  roused  by  its  brazen  voice, 
that  always  sounds  so  angry  and  fiendish  one  is 
inclined  to  believe  the  unfortunate  dissenting 
chapel  where  it  lives  possessed  of  a  devil),  a 
carriage  drove  up  the  avenue,  and  stopped  in 
front  of  Meg's  doorway. 

A  very  pretty  lady  descended  —  almost  as 
pretty,  Meg  thought,  as  the  one  who  had  been 
so  kind  the  day  Sally  Baines's  cat  got  her  into 
difficulty,  and  who  had  several  times  since  then 
visited  the  little  rooms  in  Minetta  Lane. 

"  You  need  not  wait,"  Meg  heard  the  lady  say 
to  the  coachman;  "I  shall  walk  awhile  before 
going  home.  Be  at  the  house  in  time  to  take 
me  to  the  theatre." 

A  very  elegant  lady,  in  a  rich  black  dress  Meg 
knew  to  be  velvet,  and  with  a  bonnet  so  beautiful 
that  the  child  immediately  appropriated  it  for 
the  benefit  of  the  Princess  Thelusia,  and  such 
clouds  of  golden  hair  under  the  bonnet  that  Meg 
decided  them  also  worthy  to  decorate  the  head 
of  her  favorite  heroine.  Up  and  down  the  lady 
walked  in  a  slow,  meditative  fashion,  and  Meg 
watched  her,  wondering  if  she  knew  the  giant, 
and  was  waiting  to  have  an  interview  with  him. 
How  Meg  longed  to  run  and  ask,  but  even  at  her 
time  of  life  one  begins  to  be  shackled  by  the  pro- 
prieties, and  Meg  felt  it  was  impossible  to  grati- 
fy her  yearning.  She  watched  her  so  attentive- 
ly that  at  last  the  lady,  passing  several  times 
close  to  the  doorway,  noticed  the  child.  There 
was  a  look  of  admiration  in  Meg's  face  easy  to 
read — especially  to  a  woman  as  fond  of  such  in- 
cense, from  whatever  quarter  it  might  come,  as 
this  lady  chanced  to  be.  She  glanced  at  Meg 
and  smiled,  and  Meg  thought  the  very  sunshine 
grew  brighter  and  warmer.  The  other  lady  had 
smiled  at  her  too,  but  so  sadly,  so  sorrowfully, 
that  Meg  had  asked  Aunt  Jean  if  she  were  un- 
happy. Still,  even  as  she  compared  the  two, 
Meg  was  faithful  to  her  allegiance,  and  decided 
that  her  first  favorite  was  more  beautiful:  this 
one  might  be  a  princess,  like  Thelusia,  but  the 
other  was  a  grand  queen  at  the  very  least. 

Presently  the  lady  turned  down  the  very  street 
Meg  must  take?  and  not  long  after  the  bell  chimed 
three.  She  started  up  at  once,  bade  farewell  to 
the  giant's  castle  and  her  dreams,  and  descended 
to  the  actualities  of  life.  Aunt  Jean  expects 
prudence  on  the  part  of  a  child  considered  fit  to 


156 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIK. 


be  trusted  out  alone,  and  Meg  would  not  disap- 
point that  confidence  for  the  world. 

Meg  saw  the  lady  in  advance,  walking  slowly 
along.  At  length  she  stopped  before  a  house 
which  Meg  had  remarked  on  her  way  to  the  Kes- 
ervoir,  from  the  quantities  of  flowers  in  the  win- 
dows. She  lived  there — she  was  going  up  the 
steps.  Meg  hunied  on  to  get  a  last  look  before 
she  disappeared.  Just  as  the  child  reached  the 
dwelling  the  door  opened  and  closed  behind  the 
ladv,  and  Meg  was  turning  away  disappointed  at 
not  having  had  another  glimpse  of  the  lovely 
face  when  she  perceived  something  white  lying 
on  the  lower  step. 

It  was  a  handkerchief,  as  filmy  and  soft  as  a 
spider's  web,  Meg  thought,  and  there  was  lace 
on  it,  such  as  she  had  seen  in  the  windows  when 
Aunt  Jean  took  her  into  the  region  of  shops 
away  down  Broadway,  and  an  odor  of  violets 
that  was  like  a  breath  of  garden  air. 

Meg  picked  up  the  handkerchief,  mounted  the 
steps,  and  pulled  the  bell  in  great  haste.  An  old 
woman  appeared ;  she  looked  very  cross,  and  be- 
gan gesticulating  and  crying  out  in  some  un- 
known language,  and  was  altogether  so  violent 
that  Meg's  first  impulse  was  to  fling  the  hand- 
kerchief down  and  run  away,  afraid  that  she  had 
encountered  some  malevolent  fairy — for,  alas! 
there  were  evil- disposed  natures  even  among 
fairies.  But  she  stood  her  ground,  and  was  try- 
ing to  explain  what  had  brought  her,  though  the 
old  fairy  only  scolded  the  harder,  and  refused 
even  to  notice  the  bit  of  lace  Meg  held  up.  Just 
then  the  pretty  lady  came  back  through  the  hall, 
and  addressed  the  woman  in  that  same  unknown 
tongue,  only  it  sounded  sweet  and  musical  from 
her  lips.  She  perceived  Meg,  and  said  in  En- 
glish— 

"  What  is  it,  little  girl  ?    What  did  you  want  ?" 

"Please,  it's  the  handkerchief;  I  saw  it  on 
the  steps,"  Meg  stammered,  not  so  much  because 
she  felt  shy  as  from  eagerness. 

"Ah,  thanks;  you  are  a  good  child — I  am 
much  obliged.  Let  me  see,  what  shall  I  give 
you  ?"  returned  the  lady,  regarding  Meg.  The 
child's  dress  was  simple  enough,  but  she  did  not 
somehow  look  as  if  one  could  offer  her  money. 

The  old  woman  was  talking  all  the  while  ;  the 
lady  put  up  her  hand,  as  if  annoyed  by  the  buzz- 
ing, and  sent  her  away.  Meg  knew  that  by  the 
gesture  which  accompanied  the  words.  The  at- 
tendant clattered  along  the  marble  floor  on  a  pair 
of  preposterously  high  heels,  chattering  like  an 
ill-n:itured  magpie  till  she  disappeared. 

Meg  could  not  help  watching  her,  and  the 
lady  said — 

"Were  you  frightened  at  my  old  Susanne? 
She  is  not  so  cross  as  she  looks."' 

But  Meg  scarcely  heard ;  she  had  caught  sight 
of  a  flowering  shrub  in  a  great  pot  near  the  foot 
of  the  staircase — a  man-el  of  dark  glossy  green 
leaves,  and  delicate  pink  blossoms  hanging  down 


like  tiny  bells.  Meg  clapped  her  hands  in  de- 
light. 

"Ah,  I  see — the  flowers, "said  the  lady,  fol- 
lowing the  direction  of  her  eyes.  "You  like 
flowers  ?  Come  in — there  are  jgjaie  I  shall  give 
you — come." 

Meg  would  have  expostulated,  remembering 
that  the  fatal  hour  had  sounded,  but  there  was 
no  time,  for  the  lady  drew  her  into  the  vestibule 
and  closed  the  door.  Meg  allowed  herself  to  be 
led  across  the  hall  into  a  room  hung  with  blue 
and  some  other  color  that  Meg  thought  neither 
white  nor  gray,  but  like  both,  with  silvery  streaks 
through  it.  The  bay-window  was  full  of  the 
plants  she  had  seen  from  the  street,  and  there 
were  pictures,  and  a  marble  boy  in  the  comer, 
and  scores  of  man-els,  which  made  Meg  think 
fairy-land  had  opened  at  last. 

"  You  shall  have  a  bouquet  to  take  home  with 
you,"  the  lady  said,  beginning  to  select  flowers 
from  the  different  plants,  and  talking  pleasantly 
as  she  did  so.  "What  is  your  name? — where 
do  you  live,  little  girl  ?" 

"  Meg  ;  with  Aunt  Jean,"  returned  the  child, 
scarcely  able  to  hear  or  answer  at  the  moment. 

"Ah,  you  think  my  room  pretty,  I  see.  What 
eyes  the  creature  has!"  And  the  lady  stopped 
short,  and  gazed  fixedly  at  her.  ' '  Why,  they  are 
like — what  a  goose  I  am !"  she  muttered  to  her- 
self, then  resumed  her  employment. 

"Oh,  I  forgot — I  mustn't  stay!"  exclaimed 
Meg,  coming  suddenly  back  to  her  senses.  "It's 
past  the  hour,  and  Aunt  Jean  said  I  was  to  go 
as  soon  as  it  struck. " 

"Then  you  shall — why,  what  an  honest  little 
soul  you  are!"  laughed  the  lady.  "See — here 
is  a  pretty  bouquet  for  you.  Some  time  if  you 
come  back  I  shall  give  you  more.  I  am  much 
obliged  to  you — this  is  my  pet  handkerchief;  I 
wouldn't  have  lost  it  fur  any  thing!" 

She  put  the  handkerchief  to  her  lips,  and  kissed 
it  passionately  several  times,  though  laughing 
still,  as  if  in  mockery  of  her  own  childishness. 

"Ah,  little  one,"  said  she,  "you  don't  know 
what  my  nonsense  means  ;  but  you  will  under- 
stand if  you  remember  it  when  you  grow  to  be  a 
woman — you  will  understand." 

She  had  caught  her  dress  in  the  jardiniere. 
She  tried  in  vain  to  extricate  it,  uttering  impa- 
tient French  exclamations,  and  rushing  into  a 
tremendous  excitement  at  once. 

"  I  see  where  it's  fastened,"  Meg  said.  She 
laid  her  bouquet  on  a  chair,  and  went  upon  her 
knees  to  pull  out  the  fringe,  which  had  twist- 
ed itself  about  some  of  the  decorations  of  the 
stand. 

The  lady  stood  looking  down  at  her.     As  Meg 

rose,  the   silver  cross  which  she  always  wore 

swung  out  from  her  neck,  and  the  lady  saw  it. 

]  She  pulled  the  child  up  so  suddenly  that  Meg 

was  almost  frightened  ;  the  face  which  bent  over 

!  her  had  grown  very  pale. 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S   HEIR. 


157 


"Take  it  off — let  me  see  it,  "she  said,  point- 
ing to  the  cross. 

Meg  obeyed  ;  the  lady  turned  away  to  exam- 
ine the  ornament,  and  stood  for  many  moments 
with  her  back  to  the  child.  At  last  she  seated 
herself  in  a  chair,  and  motioned  Meg  to  her  side. 

"  "Where  did  you  get  this  ?"  she  asked,  almost 
in  a  whisper. 

"  I've  always  had  it,"  Meg  answered,  ready  to 
sob.  "It  was  my  mother's,  Aunt  Jean  said." 

' '  Your  mother's  ?  Hush — don't  cry — don't  be 
frightened !  Oh,  I — where  do  you  live  ?" 

"  With  Aunty  Jean  —  down  in  Minetta  Lane 
— number  six,"  sobbed  Meg,  choking  back  her 
tears. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  won  Dieu .'" 

The  lady  was  not  noticing  her ;  she  was  star- 
ing at  the  cross  again.  She  had  turned  the  other 
side,  and  seen  the  letter  N  that  had  been  cut  deep 
into  the  silver. 

" May  I  go ?"  whispered  Meg.  "Aunt  Jean 
will  expect  me — please,  may  I  go  ?" 

"What — did  you  speak?  Oh,  I  know — you 
want  to  go  ;  yes,"  the  lady  answered,  controlling 
herself  by  a  violent  effort,  though  she  looked  very 
pale  still,  and  there  was  a  terror  in  her  eyes  far 
deeper  than  Meg's  childish  alarm.  "  Here  is 
your  cross — don't  be  afraid — it  is  only  that  I  am 
not  well. " 

"Aunt  Jean  takes  drops,"  said  Meg,  practi- 
cal, and  ready  to  be  of  assistance,  discomposed 
as  she  felt. 

The  lady  laughed  out  again,  but  there  was  no 
mirth  in  the  sound  now.  If  Meg  had  been  old- 
er, she  would  have  known  that  the  stranger  was 
dangerously  near  hysterics. 

"I  shall  be  better  soon  —  I  don't  want  any 
drops,"  she  said.  "Tell  me  again  where  you 
live — wait,  let  me  write  it." 

She  hurried  to  the  table,  and  scribbled  the  ad- 
dress which  Meg  repeated.  Then  she  moved 
close  to  the  child,  and  looked  fixedly  at  her. 

"I  can  not  understand,"  she  murmured.  "Oh, 
I  do  think  I  must  be  mad!  0  mon  Dieu!  — 
maman,  maman  /" 

She  struggled  with  herself  again,  and  tried  to 
smile  as  she  saw  how  her  agitation  confused  and 
distressed  the  little  girl. 

"  You  want  to  go  ?"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  please.  Aunty  will  be  expect- 
ing me,"  faltered  Meg. 

"  Good-bye.  Ah,  I  must  open  the  street-door 
tor  you.  Stop,  do  not  forget  your  flowers." 

Meg  recovered  her  precious  nosegay,  saying, 
"  Thank  you,  ma'am,  oh,  so  much." 

She  followed  the  lady  across  the  hall  into  the 
vestibule. 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  come  to  see  you  soon — be  a 
good  child." 

"Yes,  ma'am;  thank  you,"  returned  Meg, 
trying  hard  to  act  up  to  her  ideas  of  propriety 
and  politeness. 


The  lady  regarded  the  childish  face  wistfully 
for  an  instant,  bent  her  head  as  if  from  an  im- 
pulse to  kiss  the  uplifted  forehead,  then  drew 
back,  and  motioned  her  to  go,  repeating,  "  Good- 
bye, good-bye." 

Meg  hurried  down  the  street,  and  reached 
Mrs.  MacLean's  dwelling  just  as  Aunt  Jean  had 
begun  to  grow  anxious,  and  was  sallying  forth 
in  search  of  her.  It  was  time  to  go  home,  so, 
after  a  hasty  adieu  to  their  hostess,  they  set  off, 
Aunt  Jean  reserving  questions  till  she  found  her-; 
self  alone  with  Meg. 

And  the  lady  whom  Meg  had  left  went  back 
to  her  drawing-room,  and  walked  up  and  down 
for  some  time  in  troubled  thought.  At  last  she 
pulled  from  her  bosom  a  cross  which  was  the  ex- 
act counterpart  of  that  worn  by  Meg.  Again 
she  grew  frightened  and  hysterical,  moaning — 

tfO maman, maman!  OmonJJieu!  monUieu!" 

Nina  de  Farolles  had  worn  the  cross  up  to  the 
day  of  her  death.  She  had  given  it  to  Nathalie 
when  her  dying  terrors  wrung  from  her  that  dis- 
mal confession,  and  caused  her  to  burden  Natha- 
lie's soul  with  the  promise  which  even  her  fickle 
nature  could  not  forget. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE  PRESENTIMENT  FULFILLED. 

Two  days  later,  Mrs.  Murray,  sitting  in  her 
cheerful  room  with  her  dolls,  heard  a  knock  at 
the  door.  Meg  had  gone  to  visit  the  violinist, 
who  was  not  well,  and  had  begged  for  the  child's 
society.  The  musician  was  a  crack-brained  old 
fellow,  with  an  odd  gleam  of  genius,  which  en- 
abled him  to  comprehend  an  imaginative  little 
creature  like  Meg,  just  as  it  unfitted  him  for  the 
ordinary  duties  of  this  hard  world.  Had  he  pos- 
sessed less  or  more  than  this  gleam,  the  case 
might  have  been  different,  but  Meg  was  satisfied. 

Mrs.  Murray  had  reached  a  critical  point  in  the 
embryo  existence  of  the  doll  she  was  busy  over, 
and  did  not  feel  best  pleased  at  having  to  let  the 
plump  kid  body  and  the  waxen  head  fall  apart  on 
the  table  while  she  rose  to  see  what  ill-timed  in- 
truder might  be  at  hand.  She  crossed  the  dark 
passage,  and  opened  the  outer  door  that  led  to 
the  staircase.  A  lady  was  standing  there.  She 
did  not  raise  her  veil,  but  said  quickly — 

"I  want  to  see  Mrs.  Murray — the  woman  who 
has  a  little  girl  called  Meg  living  with  her." 

So  Mrs.  Murray  knew  that  the  visitor  was  the 
lady  of  whom  Meg  had  spoken,  and  felt  flattered 
and  curious,  naturally  enough.  But  she  only 
said — 

"  It's  me,  ma'am.     Will  you  walk  in  ?" 

The  lady  followed  her  into  the  room>  sat  down 
in  the  chair  Mrs.  Murray  offered  civilly  enough, 
and  put  her  veil  back.  Aunt  Jean  looked  hard 
at  her — looked  a  second  time ;  and  then  there  was 


158 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


neither  curiosity  nor  civility  in  her  face  any  lon- 
ger. She  had  suddenly  grown  stiff  and  erect.  If 
she  had  borrowed  the  poker  for  a  backbone  she 
could  not  have  sat  up  straighter  and  more  rigid. 
By  the  merest  chance  in  the  world  Aunt  Jean 
knew  the  stranger.  She  never  forgot  a  face,  and 
she  had  seen  this  lady  before — remembered,  too, 
the  history  related  in  connection  therewith. 

She  had  come  out  of  M'Intyre's  shop  one  day, 
and  was  standing  on  the  sidewalk,  talking  with 
an  acquaintance  who  worked  in  the  establishment, 
when  Nathalie  La  Tour's  carriage  drove  up,  and 
Nathalie  herself  descended. 

"There's  one  with  money  to  spend,"  whisper- 
ed Aunt  Jean's  companion.  "  Just  look  at  her  ; 
and  to  see  her  smiling  and  happy,  as  if  there  was 
no  judgment  and  no  hereafter!" 

Aunt  Jean's  acquaintance  was  a  vinegary-faced 
old  maid,  who  had  never  seen  the  bright  side  of 
temptation,  though  she  was  as  proud  of  her  vir- 
tue as  if  she  had  fought  scores  of  battles  in  its 
defense.  She  loved  gossip  also,  as  so  many  vir- 
tuous people  do,  and  knew  all  about  the  famous 
Frenchwoman  and  her  naughty  books  and  her 
naughtier  life — her  suppers,  her  coterie  of  bad 
women,  her  lovers,  and  all  the  rest ;  and  she  told 
the  story  so  fast  that  Aunt  Jean  could  not  help 
listening. 

"  She  comes  to  the  shop  often,"  the  old  maid 
said;  " she's  always  ordering  embroidery.  If 
you  just  saw  the  chemises  of  her !  I've  had  to 
take  work  to  her  house  sometimes.  Oh,  its  aw- 
ful !  with  a  naked  boy  in  one  of  the  rooms,  and 
she  as  bold  as  brass,  and  talking  so  sweet !  I  al- 
ways feel  like  quoting  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  to 
her,  and  Jezebel,  and  all  the  rest,  but  a  body 
doesn't  dare.  St.  Paul  says,  'Be  instant  in  sea- 
son and  out  of  season ;'  but  if  he'd  had  to  do  em- 
broidery for  a  living,  and  one's  place  lost  if  a 
customer  complained  of  impudence,  maybe  he'd 
not  have  found  it  so  easy  to  do  his  duty  after 
all." 

Mrs.  Murray  had  gone  away,  laughing  quietly 
to  herself  at  the  odd  jumble  virtuous  Sarah  Jenks 
made  of  the  matter,  but  the  history  remained  in 
her  mind  notwithstanding,  and  straightway  at 
sight  of  Nathalie's  face  she  grew  as  rigid  as  Sa- 
rah herself. 

"The  little  girl  is  not  here?"  Madame  La 
Tour  was  saying. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  replied  Aunt  Jean. 

"  She  was  at  my  house  the  other  day,"  pursued 
Madame,  with  a  smile  which  few  people  could 
have  resisted.  "  Perhaps  she  told  you  ?" 

Aunt  Jean  was  sorely  tempted  to  give  utterance 
to  another  "  No,  ma'am,  "but  her  worship  of  truth 
compelled  her  to  make  the  first  word  an  assent 
instead  of  a  denial. 

"  Such  a  nice  little  girl,"  pursued  Madame,try- 
ing  to  speak  carelessly,  though  there  was  a  trem- 
or in  her  voice,  and  her  features  worked  nervous- 
ly, and  her  usually  perfect  English  caught  a  slight 


foreign  intonation,  as  it  did  in  moments  of  strong 
agitation.  "  I  was  much  interested  in  her,  and 
she  said  I  might  come  to  see  her.  I  am  very  fond 
of  little  girls." 

"  You're  very  good,  ma'am,"  said  Aunt  Jean. 

She  was  watching  the  visitor  with  her  shrewd 
gray  eyes.  She  looked  as  upright  and  uncom- 
promising as  ever,  and  chopped  off  her  words 
with  the  same  unresponsive  coldness,  but  her 
breath  came  quickly,  and  her  eyes  took  a  troub- 
led, puzzled  expression  for  all  that. 

She  had  pondered  much  over  Meg's  account 
of  the  lady's  odd  manner — her  examination  of 
the  cross,  her  excited  questions.  She  perceived 
her  agitation  now,  and  a  score  of  bewildering 
thoughts  rose  in  Mrs.  Murray's  mind.  But  one 
determined  reflection  came  quickly  in  the  wake 
of  those  perplexed  fancies.  This  woman,  what- 
ever her  motive  might  be,  should  neither  see  Meg 
nor  obtain  a  shred  of  information  in  regard  to  her. 

"You  are  her  aunt,  she  told  me,"  Madame 
continued.  "  Is  her  name  Murray  ?" 

The  child  was  always  so  called.  Aunt  Jean 
compounded  with  her  conscience,  and  gave  a 
sign  of  assent. 

"  Then  her  father  was  your  brother,  I  suppose  ?  ' 
said  Madame.  She  paused — Aunt  Jean  did  not 
speak.  "Was  he  your  brother?''  demanded 
Madame,  a  sudden  impatience  shaking  the  voice 
she  tried  so  hard  to  keep  composed. 

" No,  ma'am,"  said  Jean  once  more.  She  had 
come  too  near  a  falsehood  already  for  her  peace 
of  mind — she  would  equivocate  no  further.  But 
she  would  tell  nothing,  even  if  she  were  forced  to 
take  refuge  in  sullenness  or  incivility  to  avoid  so 
doing. 

"  Ah,  her  mother  was  your  sister,"  returned 
Madame,  and  there  was  a  tone  of  relief  in  her 
voice  which  did  not  escape  her  listener.  "  I  am 
sorry  the  little  girl  is  not  in,"  she  continued  ;  "  I 
would  have  liked  to  see  her  again.  She  does  not 
remember  her  parents,  she  told  me. " 

"  No,  she  does  not,"  returned  Aunt  Jean,  and 
her  voice  likewise  had  a  tone  of  relief  in  it.  Some- 
thing had  changed  the  stranger's  mood.  She  had 
found  wanting  the  clew  that  she  had  expected  to 
catch ;  her  interest  and  agitation  were  both  gone. 

"  Her  parents  dead !  She  is  fortunate  to  have 
a  kind  relative  like  you  to  take  care  of  her." 

"  What's  in  my  power,  I  do,"  replied  Aunt 
Jean. 

If  the  lady  would  only  go — go  before  further 
question  could  bring  back  whatever  doubt  or 
trouble  had  occasioned  this  visit.  Mrs.  Murray 
had  some  wild  idea  of  inventing  an  excuse  to  get 
out  of  the  room,  but  no  reasonable  pretext  would 
suggest  itself. 

"I  saw — I  want  you  to  tell  me — "  began  Ma- 
dame. 

Aunt  Jean  felt  that  her  only  hope  lay  in  as- 
suming the  defensive.  She  said  quickly — 

"I'll  a^k   your  pardon,  ma'am,  but  ye   are 


MB.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


15'J 


strange  to  me,  I  must  just  beg  ye  to  mind.  I'm 
a  poor,  plain  body,  but  a'  the  same  I  dinna  like  to 
hae  strangers  come  speerin'  after  me  and  mine 
this  gait.  I'm  Scootch  an'  ye're  Freench,  if  I  may 
mak'  boold  to  judge  by  your  speech,  an' that's  the 
deeference  betwixt  us.  I'm  no  meanin'  to  offend, 
but  it's  aye  better  to  speak  out  what's  in  the 
mind,  an'  then  each  onderstands  the  ither." 

And  very  "  Scootch  "  Aunt  Jean  grew  both  in 
pronunciation  and  looks.  She  was  frightened  at 
the  ideas  her  visitor's  words  and  manner  roused 
in  her  mind,  and  determined  to  guard  her  secret 
under  a  panoply  of  grimness  and  obstinacy. 

No  trouble  or  mental  agitation,  however  great, 
could  be  strong  enough  to  keep  Nathalie's  pre- 
posterous vanity  in  the  background.  Aunt  Jean 
could  not  have  stung  her  worse  than  she  did  by 
that  unintentional  thrust.  To  be  told  that  she 
spoke  English  with  an  accent — she  who  prided 
herself  on  having  ' '  two  native  languages ! "  She 
colored  sensitively,  more  hurt  than  angry,  but  of 
course  Mrs.  Murray  ascribed  the  blush  to  the  lat- 
ter emotion. 

"I've  nae  wish  to  be  rude,  ma'am," she  con- 
tinued, a  little  less  stiffly,  though  she  looked  as 
grim  and  obstinate  as  ever.  "It's  on'y  that  you've 
made  a  mistake — my  bairn  an'  me  could  na'  hae 
ony  interest  for  you  whatever.  I'm  a  plain  body, 
as  ye  may  see,  and  Megsie  is  all  I  hae,  an'  there's 
nae  call  for  ony  one  to  ask  questions  aboot  her." 

Nathalie  would  have  liked  to  believe ;  to  de- 
part and  be  done  with  the  matter — put  it  out  of 
her  mind.  She  did  not  object  to  troubles  of  a 
certain  sort — troubles  which  could  assume  a  poet- 
ical coloring.  But  there  was  no  romance  in  the 
business  which  had  brought  her  here ;  it  was  a 
subject  that,  next  to  death,  was  always  the  most 
dismal  for  her  to  contemplate.  Still  she  could 
not  obey  her  first  impulse — accept  the  obstinate 
old  woman's  assertion  as  proof  that  she  had  de- 
ceived herself.  She  recollected  the  cross — that 
initial  scratched  on  the  back.  She  would  be  glad 
to  find  that  the  woman  knew  nothing  of  its  his- 
tory— that  it  had  corns  into  her  possession  by  ac- 
cident— above  all,  that  it  had  no  connection  with 
the  child.  The  surroundings  were  so  common- 
place that  Nathalie  felt  it  would  be  a  severe  blow 
to  be  obliged  to  give  the  little  girl  a  part  in  the 
fears  and  fancies  which  she  had  woven  into  a  ro- 
mantic background  for  the  picture  so  long  car- 
ried in  her  mind. 

She  would  ask  her  questions,  and  go  away ;  this 
blunt,  stiff  woman  was  an  eyesore  to  her.  If  she 
had  been  a  hag,  like  some  creature  of  sensational 
romance,  or  the  child  in  the  depths  of  misery  and 
danger,  Nathalie  could  have  found  an  excitement 
in  trying  to  follow  out  the  clew  she  had  first  be- 
lieved found;  but  respectable  poverty — poverty 
which  toiled  and  was  honest  and  content — pos- 
sessed no  interest  whatever. 

"  I  saw — she  showed  me  a  cross  she  wears," 
Nathalie  said,  trying  to  speak  carelessly ;  not  so 


much  from  a  desire  to  deceive  the  woman  as  to 
cheat  herself,  eager  to  believe  that  she  expected 
some  answer  which  would  set  her  mind  at  rest—, 
be  a  proof  that  she  had  only  excited  herself  over 
a  chance  likeness.  "  It  was  an  odd  little  cross ; 
it  is  one  you  purchased  for  her,  I  suppose  ?" 

She  stopped,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  the  old 
woman,  who  had  picked  up  her  work,  and  was 
sewing  busily.  If  the  creature  would  only  say 
"  Yes."  But  Mrs.  Murray  stitched  on,  and  said 
nothing.  "  I  have  a  reason  for  asking  about  it," 
continued  Nathalie,  her  voice  becoming  tremu- 
lous again,  for  the  silence  troubled  her.  "  A 
reason — nothing  that  has  to  do  with  you  or  the 
child  —  but  I  should  like  —  You  bought  the 
cross,  did  you  not  ?" 

It  was  full  a  minute  before  Mrs.  Murray  an- 
swered ;  but  she  could  not  escape  —  she  must 


"  Nae ;  I  did  na'  buy  it,"  she  said. 
She  heard  a  heavy,  gasping  breath  ;  felt  her 
arm  seized  in  a  quick,  nervous  grasp.  Madame 
was  leaning  forward  in  her  chair ;  her  face  had 
lost  its  color  again,  and  her  eyes  looked  eager 
and  frightened.  ' '  Where  did  you  get  it  ? — tell 
me.  How  did  you  come  by  the  cross  ?"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

Speak? — say  a  word  which  could  in  any  way 
give  this  dreadful  woman  cause  to  think  she  had 
part  or  lot  in  that  innocent  child  ?  Never !  Aunt 
Jean  would  sooner  have  been  trampled  to  death 
by  wild  horses. 

"Ane  gied  it  me,  if  ye  maun  ken,"  she  said. 
"  I  hae  naething  in  the  world  I  did  na'  come  by 
honestly." 

"It's  not  that ;  I  don't  doubt  your  honesty." 

"  Nae,  nae,  I  should  na'  fear  ye  wad  ;  naebody 
e'er  did  that,"  retorted  Jean,  seizing  at  any  pre- 
tense for  anger,  in  the  hope  that  her  visitor  might 
take  offense  and  end  the  interview. 

"  Who  gave  it  to  you  ?"  cried  Madame,  more 
excitedly.  "  Can't  you  speak  ? — don't  you  hear?" 

Aunt  Jean  formed  a  sudden  resolve. 

"I'll  tell  ye,"  she  said;  "I'll  tell  ye;  then 
maybe  ye'll  leave  me  an'  mine  to  gae  our  lane." 

' '  Who  was  it  ?  A  woman,  I  know.  Where 
is  she  ? — is  she  alive  ?" 

"  Dead,  most  like  ;  I  hae  reason  to  think  so," 
returned  Jean,  in  a  solemn  voice,  as  she  held  up 
a  warning  finger.  "  Dead,  nae  doot.  'The  wages 
o*  sin  is  deeth. '  If  e'er  ye  read  your  Bible,  ye  ken 
that." 

"  She  hae  a  conscience,"  Mrs.  Murray  thought. 
' '  I'll  na'  be  baird  as  I  was  to  the  ither ;  but  if 
I  could  on'y  speak  the  right  word — if  I  on'y 
could !" 

"  Get  me  some  water — I'm  not  well,"  sighed 
Madame  La  Tour,  letting  her  hands  drop  into 
her  lap,  and  leaning  back  in  her  chair  with  a 
frightened,  helpless  look  which  changed  her  whole 
face.  Aunt  Jean  gave  her  a  startled  glance — a 
sudden  resemblance  to  another  face  struck  her 


ICO 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


for  the  first  time  ;  but,  sorely  as  it  dismayed  her, 
it  was  only  an  added  reason  for  hugging  her  se- 
cret fast.  Speak  ?  Never !  She  would  save  her 
child — her  one  treasure — her  sweet  Meg !  That 
was  her  duty  in  this  world.  God  would  require 
at  her  hands  the  precious  soul  His  mysterious 
workings  had  intrusted  to  her  guardianship. 

She  was  thinking  this  as  she  hurried  to  fetch 
the  water.  She  came  back  to  Madame  La  Tour 
— put  the  tumbler  into  her  shaking  hand.  Ma- 
dame drank  eagerly ;  her  color  and  strength  be- 
gan to  return. 

Aunt  Jean  felt  a  pity  for  the  woman  rise  in 
her  heart.  It  was  not  only  that  she  wanted  to 
say  some  word  which  should  strike  to  her  soul, 
but  something  that  should  bring  comfort  too. 

"Ma'am,"  she  said  softly, "  there's  ither  things 
in  the  Bible  too :  there's  loving  promises,  an' 
there's  a  hope,  if  on'y  a  body  will  turn  from  the 
evil— it's  ne'er  too  late.  He  raised  the  dead  to 
life — He  pardoned  the  Magdalen — Oh,  He's  just 
as  kind  an'  pitiful  this  day." 

"You're  mad!"  cried  Nathalie.  "You're  a 
hopeless,  raxing  lunatic !  How  dare  you  talk  to 
me  like  that!  What  idea  have  you  got  irT your 
head? — for  whom  do  you  mistake  me?  Why, 
you  crazy  thing !  What  dreadful  words ! — what  a 
horrible  old  woman  in  every  way !  I  don't  want 
to  hear  your  ignorant  fancies,  your  antiquated 
superstitions,"  Madame  cried,  desperately.  "You 
are  rude  and  impertinent ;  you're  a  bad-hearted 
creature,  too." 

Nathalie  had  all  her  mother's  horror  of  death. 
The  very  word  was  enough  to  give  her  a  nervous 
spasm  in  her  calmest  moments,  and  now,  when 
half  beside  herself  with  excitement,  it  was  torture 
of  the  most  horrible  description  to  hear  this  cruel 
creature  complacently  naming  it,  and  talking  as 
her  mother  used  to  talk  in  her  dark  moods  of 
pain  and  remorse.  That  death-scene  rose  before 
her — the  moans,  the  prayers,  the  imprecations  ; 
but  through  them  all  came  the  words  which  had 
been  reiterated  over  and  over  —  the  words  she 
could  never  forget,  which  had  a  hold  upon  her 
mind  such  as  no  other  memory  ever  did  or  could 
possess.  "You  have  promised, Nathalie! — you 
have  promised !  I  shall  watch  you — I  shall  be 
near :  take  care  that  you  don't  forget !" 

Why,  many  a  time  she  had  awakened  from  sleep 
with  those  words  ringing  in  her  ear ;  had  run  to 
Stisanne's  room  for  refuge,  almost  expecting  to 
see  her  mother's  ghost  appear  and  demand  if  she 
had  forgotten.  Here,  in  the  broad  daylight, 
with  tlie  sun  shining  through  the  window,  and  in 
the  midst  of  these  commonplace  surroundings, 
the  same  dreadful  terror  came  over  her.  She 
hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  shivered  piteously. 

What  could  Jean  think  but  that  her  warning 
had  struck  home — awakened  some  gleam  of  re- 
morse in  the  heart  of  this  woman,  whose  de- 
praved life  was  too  well  known  for  harsh  judg- 
ments to  be  a  slander? 


"  You  ought  to  feel  as  if  a  queen  had  honored 
you  by  coming !  You  might  see  my  name  the 
first  time  you  go  out ;  you  can  read,  can't  you  ? 
I  saw  the  placards  with  my  books  and  my  name 
at  the  corner  even  ;  why,  I  am  Madame  La 
Tour !" 

That  the  very  stones  in  the  street  would  have 
recognized  this  title  was  a  solemn  faith  to  Natha- 
lie's positively  sublime  vanity.  The  Empress 
of  all  the  Russias  could  not  have  revealed  her 
identity  with  a  more  perfect  confidence  of  her 
name  being  a  familiar  sound  through  the  length 
and  breadth  of  Christendom. 

That  appalling  old  woman !  She  only  shook 
her  head  sadly,  and,  as  firm  in  her  conviction 
that  she  was  following  out  the  line  of  duty  as  ever 
one  set  of  Christians  were  when  they  put  to  death 
those  who  presumed  to  reject  their  creeds,  said, 
with  a  mingling  of  firmness  and  pity — 

"  It's  because  I  do  know  your  name  that  I 
speak — just  for  that ;  an'  oh,  if  ye  wad  listen  ! 
I'm  poor  an'  plain  an'  ignorant  maybe,  bat  it's 
all  written  there — ye  can  na'  mistake  it."  She 
put  her  hand  on  the  great  old-fashioned  Bible 
tliat  lay  upon  the  table.  "  Nae  money,  nae  youth, 
nae  beauty  can  escape ;  the  time  o'  reckonin' 
comes — '  The  wages  o'  sin  is  deeth !'  Oh,  dinna 
reject  the  warnin' :  it's  ne'er  too  late — never!" 

"  Go  away  from  me! — let  me  get  out  of  your 
house !"  exclaimed  Nathalie,  really  convinced  now 
that  the  woman  was  mad. 

"It's  nae  use,  it's  nae  use !"  sighed  Aunt  Jean, 
and  sat  drearily  down  in  a  chair  opposite,  and 
gazed  with  tears  in  her  eyes  at  this  brand  which 
refused  to  be  plucked  from  the  burning. 

Pathetic  and  solemn  as  the  scene  was,  I  think 
had  there  been  a  saint  in  the  room  who  under- 
stood the  characters  and  motives  of  both,  he  must 
have  laughed  in  spite  of  himself. 

The  old  woman's  restored  composure  brought 
back  Nathalie's  courage.  She  was  a  lunatic  no 
doubt,  but  not  a  dangerous  one.  Aunt  Jean  sat 
resting  her  elbow  on  the  table,  supporting  her 
head  with  her  hand. 

She  was  thinking  of  that  lost  creature  who  had 
crossed  her  path  years  ago — of  the  time  she  saw 
her  in  the  fullness  of  youth  and  beauty — before 
her  sin  had  found  her  out.  She  was  thinking  of 
that  last  interview  ;  of  the  desolate,  desperate, 
homeless  wretch  whom  she  had  rescued  from  the 
night  and  the  storm,  and  taken  under  her  roof; 
who  had  drifted  away  to  new  misery — new  sin. 

Ah,  if  she  could  only  tell  the  tale  in  fitting 
words ;  if  she  could  only  bring  the  history  close 
to  the  heart  and  conscience  of  this  pretty,  arro- 
gant creature,  who  was  treading  the  same  down- 
ward road — treading  among  flowers  still,  but  be- 
yond loomed  the  night  and  the  storm,  and  worse 
— worse  !  Strive  as  she  might,  believe  in  God's 
goodness  as  she  did,  Aunt  Jean's  mind  was  so 
troubled  by  dark.  Calvinistic  creeds  that  all  hope, 
all  promise,  ended  with  this  life. 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


161 


The  silence  and  the  woman's  quietness  of  man- 
ner had  given  Nathalie  time  to  recover  her  wits. 
She  shook  out  her  ruffled  plumage,  smiled,  and 
said  sweetly — 

"Now  please  tell  me  all  you  can  about  the 
cross,  there's  a  good  soul ;  it  is  time  I  was  gone." 

"The  crucifeex  ?"'  cried  Aunt  Jean.  "Did 
na'  ye  hear  me  say  ane  gied  it  me  ?" 

"Yes,  yes  ;  but  who — who  ?" 

"  It's  na'  a  story  about  me  or  mine,  remember 
that ;  but  I'll  tell  it  ye— yes,  I'll  tell  it ;  mayhap 
it'll  bring  the  warnin'hame." 

"  0  man  Dieu!"  groaned  Nathalie.  "There 
she  goes  again  with  her  warnings  and  every  sort 
of  horror !  My  good  creature,  don't  excite  your- 
self— just  give  me  a  plain  answer." 

"I'll  gie  ye  ane;  I  will!"  said  Aunt  Jean. 
"  It's  to  ken  how  I  haed  the  crucifeex  ?  A  wick- 
ed, papistical  emblem,  that's  been  a  sair  trouble 
to  me  mony  a  time,  but  I  could  na'  bring  mysel' 
to  put  it  awa'forby — but  that's  na'  the  question." 

"  No,  no ;  I  only  want  to  know  who  gave  it  to 
you,"  Nathalie  said,  growing  anxious  and  eager 
again. 

Aunt  Jean  leaned  forward,  speaking  slowly, 
with  her  lean  forefinger  extended  to  point  her 
words. 

"  She  was  nane  o'  me  or  mine,  do  ye  mind 
that  ?  A  poor,  lost  creature  that  I  saw  ance  in 
the  midst  o'  her  wealth  an'  her  luxury  —  goin' 
down  a  flowery  path ;  but  it  led  straight  to  hell 
—  dinna'  forget  that !  Ye  may  cover  up  the  sin 
wi'  gauds  and  treenkets  —  ye  may  ha'  the  voice 
o'  hairps  an'  the  soonds  o'  revelry,  but  it  wins 
straight  to  hell  a'  the  same." 

"The  cross  —  I  only  want  to  hear  about  the 
cross,"  shivered  Nathalie. 

She  would  have  got  up  and  run  away,  just  from 
a  vague,  nervous  terror,  but  Aunt  Jean's  solemn 
eyes  and  Aunt  Jean's  warning  finger  held  her  fast. 

"  It's  just  a  pairt  o'  it,"  the  old  woman  an- 
swered. "  That  was  the  way  I  see  her  first  — 
in  broidered  raiment  an'  jewels  an'  a'  the  rest, 
an'  it's  on  my  soul  that  I  was  na'  merciful 
enough  —  for  she  was  young  —  oh,  younger  than 
you,  my  leddy,  an' just  as  fair — " 

"I'll  not  have  you  talk  about  me,"  broke  in 
Nathalie,  passionately.  ' '  I'll  not  stay ;  you  shall 
be  made  to  speak — I'll  send  those  who  will  force 
you  to;  but  I'll  not  stay." 

Yet  Aunt  Jean's  eyes  held  her  fast — she  could 
no  more  have  stirred  than  if  she  had  been  bound 
in  her  chair. 

"An"  I  left  her  in  the  midst  o'  her  sin,  for 
she'd  hear  nae  warnin' — mind  that !"  continued 
Jean,  in  a  deeper  voice,  with  an  added  trouble  in 
her  keen  gray  eyes.  "  An'  where  did  I  find  her 
next  ?  In  the  street,  wi'  ne'er  a  shelter  left  — 
lovers  an'  freends  far  aloof,  an'  she  speerin'  at 
the  black  river  an'  dazin'  her  poor  brain  wi'  its 
roar,  an'  the  worst  sin  o'  all  temptin'  her  like  a 
fiend." 


"  0  won  Dieu!  mon  Dieu!"  moaned  Nathalie. 

"I  gie  her  shelter — I'd  hae  saved  her  if  I  could, 
but  she  wad  na'  bide.  She  went  her  lane — stole 
off  while  I  slept,  an' journeyed  on  down  the  fear- 
some road  —  down,  down  ;  an'  I  hae  reason  to 
think  the  end  cam'  at  last — the  awfu'  end,  an' 
she  lies  in  a  nameless  grave,  awa'  by  the  great 
Paceefic  shore,  an'  ne'er  a  sign  o'  her  left  but 
the  bit  cross  I  let  my  childie  wear  to  comfort  me 
auld  heart  a  bit  by  thinkin'  that  though  I  was 
haird  at  first,  I  softened — little  eno'  I  did,  but  I 
had  the  wull — I'm  aye  glad  an'  thankfu'  for  that." 

She  put  her  hand  before  her  eyes,  and  sat  silent. 

Dead !  That  was  the  one  thought  in  Na- 
thalie's mind.  She  could  not  tell  if  she  were 
shocked  or  grieved  that  the  dread  which  had 
haunted  her  so  long  was  lightened.  Dead ! 
There  need  be  no  further  remembrance  of  her 
promise — there  was  nothing  to  do. 

Then  every  other  reflection  vanished  in  a  de- 
sire to  get  beyond  the  woman's  reach  —  out  of 
the  sound  of  her  voice.  She  rose  quickly,  and 
hurried  toward  the  door.  She  was  weak  and 
shaken  ;  she  could  bear  nothing  further — not  a 
word  —  a  syllable  ;  she  should  faint  or  go  into 
hysterics  if  those  dull,  grating  tones  struck  her 
ear  again. 

Aunt  Jean  heard  her  rise,  but  she  did  not 
move.  She  watched  her  depart  in  silence,  with 
a  keen  feeling  of  relief.  She  had  uttered  her 
warning — she  was  powerless  to  do  more.  And 
Meg  was  safe — God  had  cared  for  the  nameless 
little  one.  No  further  danger  would  beset  the 
child ;  she  might  grow  up  humble,  honest.  The 
Lord  would  spare  her  —  He  would  spare  her! 
For  when  it  became  a  matter  that  touched  her 
beloved,  Aunt  Jean  could  forget,  as  the  sternest 
do,  the  mysterious  sentence  in  regard  to  the 
transmission  of  punishment  for  sin  from  father 
to  child,  though  ordinarily  she  held  fast  to  it  in 
all  the  horror  of  its  full  meaning  —  accepted  it 
literally,  forgetting  that  though  "  the  letter  kill- 
eth,  the  spirit  maketh  alive." 

She  watched  the  graceful  creature  float  out  of 
the  room  with  her  golden  hair  and  her  silken 
robes,  and  all  the  radiance  that  to  most  eyes 
would  have  brightened  the  shadowy  haunt ;  and 
when  the  door  closed  Aunt  Jean  went  down 
upon  her  knees,  and  while  she  thanked  God  for 
having  been  allowed  to  keep  her  darling  safe, 
she  prayed  for  the  beautiful  woman,  compassion- 
ating the  sinner  even  while  she  shuddered  at  the 
sin. 

As  Nathalie  La  Tour  reached  the  lower  hall 
she  encountered  a  lady  who  had  just  entered  the 
house.  They  both  looked  up  simultaneously  — 
their  eyes  met ;  once  more  she  and  Elizabeth 
Crauford  were  standing  face  to  face. 

"  Elizabeth  !"  exclaimed  Madame  La  Tour, 
forgetting  her  recent  agitation — forgetting  what 
she  had  always  remembered  when  thinking  of  her 
former  friend,  that  Elizabeth's  judgments  upon 


16S 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


her  books  and  her  doctrines  would  be  too  con- 
demnatory for  any  chance  of  future  companion- 
ship to  be  possible — forgetting  every  thing  except 
that  she  saw  before  her  the  one  member  of  her 
own  sex  for  whom  she  had  ever  really  cared  — 
' '  Elizabeth  !  How  glad  I  am— how  odd  to  meet 
you  —  after  so  long !  Aren't  you  glad  —  won't 
you  speak  to  me  —  don't  you  know  me,  Eliza- 
beth ?" 

She  had  begun  eagerly — the  broken  exclama- 
tions came  more  and  more  slowly,  as  she  looked 
at  her  .former  friend  standing  there  silent,  unre- 
sponsive, not  noticing  her  extended  hand,  and 
saw,  too,  the  mingled  emotions  which  stirred  the 
pale,  proud  features  —  aversion  —  horror.  Na- 
thalie was  too  quick  in  her  perceptions  not  to 
read  the  whole. 

Her  voice  died  in  a  sort  of  sob  ;  her  lips  quiv- 
ered, her  eyes  filled  with  a  sudden  trouble,  which 
gave  her  face  the  childish  look  Elizabeth  recol- 
lected so  well  —  the  look  which  in  the  old  days 
had  never  failed  to  soften  her  heart,  however 
much  Nathalie  might  have  annoyed  or  shocked 
her  by  the  utterance  of  her  absurd  theories  or 
wicked  transcendentalism. 

But  she  was  not  softened  now.  One  could 
not  say  that  it  was  anger  which  filled  her  heart. 
This  woman  had  stolen  no  treasure  that  was 
hers  ;  the  law  bound  her  to  Darrell  Vaughan  ; 
but  in  listening  to  his  love  Nathalie  brought  to 
her  no  appreciable  personal  wrong.  Horror  and 
aversion  were  in  her  face  —  Nathalie  read  its 
language  aright ;  but  neither  jealousy  nor  pain 
had  any  part  therein.  It  was  only  as  if  a  spirit 
of  evil  had  started  up  before  her  under  a  sem- 
blance of  beauty,  and  were  trying  to  cheat  her, 
in  spite  of  all  her  knowledge  of  the  truth,  into  a 
belief  of  its  purity. 

A/ter  an  instant  she  spoke ;  courteously,  qui- 
etly—  except  that  she  uttered  the  name  just  as 
she  might  have  addressed  a  stranger. 

"  '\Yill  Madame  La  Tour  allow  me  to  pass  ?" 
she  said. 

"  Oh,  Elizabeth  !"  exclaimed  Nathalie  again. 
There  were  positively  tears  in  her  eyes.  Tears 
did  not  mean  much  with  her :  she  could  weep 
over  touching  poetry,  a  pathetic  novel,  a  sorrow- 
ful play.  It  was  the  same  sort  of  sentiment  that 
moved  her  now ;  still  to  her  it  was  real  —  light, 
transitory  feelings  were  all  that  her  facile  nature 
could  hold.  But  to  Elizabeth  the  mournful 
voice,  the  pretty,  pleading  gestures,  the  misty 
eyes,  were  only  a  paltry  bit  of  acting,  that  had 
not  even  the  excuse  of  a  motive. 

She  moved  a  step  forward,  impatient  of  the 
i-cene,  but  Nathalie  did  not  stir — she  was  stand- 
ing on  the  lower  stair,  and  kept  her  place. 

"I  have  thought  so  much  about  you — I  want- 
ed so  to  see  you  again !  I  wondered  how  and 
where  we  should  meet— and  now  you'll  not  speak 
to  me  even.  Oh,  Elizabe.th,  Elizabeth!"  she 
cried  anew. 


"  I  must  again  ask  you  to  let  me  pass,"  was 
all  Elizabeth  said. 

"  Oh,  you  hard-hearted  thing !"  exclaimed  Na- 
thalie, a  hot  anger  drying  her  tears  and  flushing 
her  face.  "I  couldn't  treat  any  creature  so  that 
I  had  ever  called  my  friend,  no  matter  what  had 
happened." 

"  The  difference  between  Nathalie  L'Estrange 
and  Madame  La  Tour  is  too  great  for  me  to  feel 
that  they  are  one  and  the  same,"  Elizabeth  re- 
plied. "  If  you  will  not  let  me  pass,  I  must  go 
away  again." 

She  turned ;  Nathalie  caught  her  dress,  and 
said,  in  a  voice  which  was  only  pleading  and 
earnest — 

"  Don't  leave  me  like  that — don't !" 

"I  must,"  Elizabeth  ans*.vered.  "Madame 
La  Tour  ought  to  feel  the  impossibility  of  our 
meeting  even — standing  face  to  face — exchang- 
ing so  much  as  a  word." 

A  vivid  scarlet  rushed  into  Nathalie's  cheeks. 
Proud  of  her  daring  creeds,  at  the  same  time,  in 
odd  contradiction,  proud  of  the  personal  purity 
of  her  life,  she  felt  a  certain  shame  in  listening 
to  Elizabeth's  rebuke — shame  so  strong  that  she 
could  not  even  be  angry.  Naturally  Elizabeth 
ascribed  that  confusion  to  a  very  different  cause 
from  its  real  one.  She  could  but  recollect  that 
she  was  Darrell  Vaughan's  wife,  and  this  woman 
one  for  whose  sake  he  was  periling  reputation, 
honor,  setting  at  naught  the  common  decencies 
of  life. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  so  hard  on 
me,"  said  Nathalie,  with  another  sob  in  her 
voice.  "  You  may  not  like  my  books,  you  may 
not  think  as  I  do  ;  but  I  have  won  fame — I  have 
proved  that  I  am  not  an  ordinary,  frivolous  wom- 
an :  and  you  used  to  talk  so  much  about  worship- 
ing genius,  and  all  that." 

"  Madame  La  Tour  remembers  my  opinions 
so  accurately  that  she  ought  to  recollect  there 
were  things  I  prized  more  highly,"  was  the  re- 
sponse. 

"Oh,  you  always  had  all  sorts  of  old-fashioned 
ideas!"  retorted  Nathalie,  impatiently.  "But 
you  can't  say  I'm  not  famous  and  admired !  Did 
you  ever  read  one  of  my  books  ?" 

"You  know  I  never  have." 

Nathalie  was  vexed.  She  could  have  borne 
coldness,  would  not  have  minded  rebuke  or 
harsh  language ;  but  to  have  any  human  creat- 
ure deny  that  she  was  pretty,  or  speak  scornfully 
of  her  literary  labors,  was  too  much  for  her  pa- 
tience. 

"Ah!"  said  she,  with  a  shrug  of  her  shoul- 
ders ;  "I'd  have  said  there  was  one  woman  in 
the  world  incapable  of  envy,  but  I  see  you  are 
not  different  from  the  rest." 

That  speech  was  so  thoroughly  Nathalie, 
Elizabeth  could  almost  have  smiled  —  almost 
have  believed  that  these  weary  years  since  thev 
parted  were  only  a  dream  ;  that  she  and  this 


MR,  VAUGHAN'S   HEIR. 


163 


absurd,  contradictory,  impossible  creature  were 
back  in  the  pleasant  Swiss  valley,  and  no  sin  on 
the  woman's  soul  worse  than  that  of  holding 
borrowed  theories,  whose  wickedness  she  seemed 
too  frivolous  to  comprehend. 

She  moved  aside  a  little,  and  Elizabeth  took 
advantage  of  this  to  pass  her.  Again  Nathalie 
put  out  her  hand  and  caught  Elizabeth's  dress. 

"So  you  mean  to  go?"  she  asked.  "You 
think  because  I  have  a  soul  broad  enough  to 
hold  new,  true  creeds,  that  I  must  necessarily 
be  what  you  call  bad.  Go,  then.  I  would  not 
be  you  with  all  your  virtue  and  your  pride. 
Narrow,  petty,  and  so  cold !  Go  ;  we  shall  not 
see  one  another  again.  Oh — " 

She  broke  off  suddenly.  A  new  thought 
struck  her. 

"Why,  what  are  you  doing  here  ?"  she  asked. 

"There  is  a  woman  I  come  sometimes  to  vis- 
it," Elizabeth  said.  "  Please  to  let  go  my  dress, 
Madame  La  Tour." 

"A  Scotch  woman,  with  a  little  girl  —  a 
niece  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Great  heavens!"  cried  Nathalie.  "Yon 
don't  know  about  the  cross  ?"  She  struck  her 
hands  hard  together ;  her  anger  at  Elizabeth's 
scorn  of  her  books  gave  her  a  new  idea.  "  Why 
shouldn't  you  bear  part  of  the  burden  ?"  cried 
she.  "  I  wouldn't  have  told  you  ;  I'd  have  died 
to  keep  the  knowledge  from  you,  for  I  loved  you 
— yes,  I  did.  I  never  cared  half  so  much  for 
any  girl ;  but  you  hate  me,  you  brush  me  out  of 
your  path,  and  I'll  tell !" 

Was  she  about  to  boast  of  her  empire  over 
Vaiighan?  Had  she  sunk  so  low  that,  to  grati- 
fy her  malice,  she  would  be  capable  of  this  base- 
ness ? 

"Tell  me  nothing,"  Elizabeth  said.  "What- 
ever you  may  have  become,  you  would  regret  it 
some  day,  if  there  is  a  trace  of  the  old  Nathalie 
left.  Go  your  way,  and  let  me  go  mine.  Cm- 
paths  need  not  cross." 

"  There  is  a  fate  links  your  way  with  mine," 
cried  Nathalie,  in  her  theatrical  fashion  ;  "the 
threads  were  woven  before  you  or  I  was  born. 
Aye,  that  was  what  my  warning  meant  when  I 
first  met  you — that  was  the  trouble  I  must  bring 
you.  Maybe  I  shall  be  sorry,  but  I'll  tell  all 
the  same.  I've  borne  it  alone  long  enough  ; 
take  your  share." 

She  was  holding  Elizabeth  fast  again.  With- 
out an  absolute  physical  struggle  Mrs.  Vaughan 
could  not  have  freed  herself. 

"Speak, then, ''said  Elizabeth.  " I,  too,  have 
borne  so  much  that  my  heart  is  callous.  I  can 
bear  even  this." 

Still  she  misinterpreted  Nathalie's  meaning, 
still  gave  it  the  only  significance  it  could  have 
to  her  mind. 

"You  don't  know,  you  don't  know — " 

"  Hush  !"  interrupted   Elizabeth.     "I  have 


seen  with  my  own  eyes.  Nathalie,  I  know  ev- 
ery thing." 

"And  did  you  ever  try  to  find  her — to  help  ? 
I  thought  I  had  a  clew,  and  it  has  failed,  only  I 
know  she  is  dead. " 

"  Dead  !  Who  ?"  asked  Elizabeth,  wonder- 
ing if  the  woman  had  gone  out  of  her  senses. 

"Marguerite — my  sister  and  yours — the  child 
of  your  father  and  my  mother,  Nina  de  Favol- 
les!"  exclaimed  Nathalie. 

Elizabeth  clutched  blindly  at  the  banisters, 
and  would  have  fallen  had  not  Nathalie  held  her 
up. 

"Oh,  Elizabeth!"  she  cried,  struck  with  a 
sudden  remorse.  "I  am  so  sorry,  indeed  I  am. 
You  didn't  know,  you — " 

"  Hush  !"  interrupted  Elizabeth  again,  sitting 
down  on  the  stairs.  "It  is  not  true  !  it  is  not 
true !" 

"  It  is  true.  I  have  old  letters  of  your  fa- 
ther's that  would  prove  it.  Mamma  gave  the 
child  away.  She  was  brought  to  America. 
When  mamma  was  dying  she  told  me — begged 
me  to  find  her,  if  I  could.  She  wore  a  cross — 
like  this." 

Nathalie  drew  from  her  bosom  a  cross  exactly 
like  the  one  Elizabeth  had  been  shown  by  Mrs. 
Murray.  She  was  stunned  and  faint.  The  last 
prop  seemed  forced  from  under  her  feet  by  this 
tale  of  her  father's  sin. 

"  She  is  dead," pursued  Nathalie ;  "dead.  I 
saw  the  cross  on  that  child's  neck.  But  these 
people  were  nothing  to  Marguerite ;  the  old 
woman  was  kind  to  her  once,  and  Marguerite 
gave  her  that." 

Elizabeth  found  strength  to  get  upon  her  feet, 
and  turned  her  white  face  on  Madame  La  Tour. 

"  I  don't  believe  the  story  you  have  told  me," 
she  said  ;  "I  don't  believe  it." 

Again  anger  overcame  all  other  emotions  in 
Nathalie's  mind,  even  her  sudden  remorse.  She 
took  two  letters  from  her  pocket,  and  held  them 
toward  Elizabeth. 

"Then  read  these,  and  you  will  believe  it," 
she  cried.  "  I  brought  them  thinking  that  if 
the  child  proved  to  be  Marguerite's  I  might 
need  them.  They  weren't  wanted  ;  but  look  at 
them,  you — " 

She  unfolded  one,  and  held  it  before  Elizabeth. 
She  read  almost  in  spite  of  herself — read  enough 
to  know  that  doubt  was  impossible.  She  closed 
her  eyes  for  an  instant,  and  clung  to  the  banis- 
ters again. 

"Oh  dear,  oh  dear,  I  wish  I  had  not!" 
moaned  Nathalie,  thrusting  the  letters  into  her 
pocket,  with  a  return  of  terror  and  remorse. 
"  Elizabeth— Elizabeth  !" 

Mrs.  Vaughan  let  her  hands  drop  to  her  sides 
—bent  her  death-like  face  upon  Nathalie. 

"If  you  are  satisfied — go,"she  said. 

This  time  Nathalie  shrank  away  without  a 
word. 


101 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


"I  am  sorry  I  told  her," she  muttered,  as  her 
carriage  rolled  oft'.  "But  she  vexed  me  so! 
Well,  we  shall  not  meet  again — and  I  did  not 
even  ask  if  she  were  married  !  Oh,  I  was  very 
fond  of  her,  my  beautiful  Elizabeth  !  Ah,  mon 
Dieu  !  mon  Dieu .'  But  I  don't  want  to  think 
about  her  —  thank  goodness  I  know  nobody 
who  will  ever  mention  her  name.  And  it's 
all  so  odd !  Poor  Marguerite— oh,  mamma, 
mamma!" 

She  began  to  shiver  and  sob,  and  was  so  ex- 
hausted by  the  time  she  reached  home  that  she 
could  only  creep  into  bed  and  let  Susanne  dose 
her  with  sedatives.  But  when  evening  came 
she  was  quite  restored,  able  to  receive  Vaughan 
and  other  guests,  and  charm  them  all  by  her 
brilliancy  find  high  spirits. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

SO   NEAR   DEATH. 

IT  was  very  late  the  next  morning  when  Eliza- 
beth left  her  chamber  and  went  down  into  the 
breakfast-room.  She  was  ill;  suffering  bodily 
as  well  as  mental  pain.  In  all  the  dismal  watches 
which  had  become  so  familiar  to  her  during  these 
years  of  trouble,  perhaps  no  vigil  had  been  so 
sad  as  that  of  the  past  night. 

Even  without  the  testimony  of  the  letter,  it 
would  have  been  useless  to  try  for  comfort  by 
any  attempt  to  disbelieve  the  tale  Madame  La 
Tour  had  revealed  in  her  reckless  anger.  Mo- 
tive for  a  falsehood,  there  could  have  been  none ; 
besides,  there  was  the  stamp  of  truth  in  Natha- 
lie's face — in  every  word  she  uttered.  Circum- 
stances long  forgotten  came  back,  and  added  their 
proof  to  the  record.  Even  the  name  Nathalie 
had  spoken — Nina  de  Favolles  ;  it  struck  Eliza- 
beth with  a  sense  of  familiarity  when  she  heard 
it:  the  time  and  place  recurred  to  her  before  her 
vigil  ended.  Years  and  years  ago,  in  Europe, 
when  she  was  a  tiny  child.  It  was  one  of  the 
rare  occasions  on  which  Elizabeth  could  recollect 
seeing  her  mother  roused  to  anger.  Now  and 
then  Mr.  Crauford  would  persevere  in  teazing 
and  annoying  her  until  he  excited  a  storm  be- 
fore which  he  quailed.  There  had  been  conten- 
tion between  the  parents,  and  they  quarreled, 
unconscious  that  the  little  daughter  had  stolen 
into  the  room.  Nina  de  Favolles  !  It  was  Mrs. 
Crauford  who  had  uttered  the  name  in  the  midst 
of  angry  and  disdainful  reproaches.  Elizabeth 
remembered  how  white  her  mother  was — how 
her  great  eyes  flashed  as  she  snoke  ;  remember- 
ed her  father's  growing  humble  and  penitent  at 
once. 

Then  there  returned  the  recollections  of  Mr. 
Crauford's  anger  and  nervous  dread  when  he 
discovered  the  identity  of  their  neighbor  at  La 
Muladeyre  —  the  odd,  rude  words  Nathalie's 


mother  had  several  times  spoken  to  her.  There 
was  no  memory,  however  slight,  which  would 
not  have  brought  its  evidence,  even  without  the 
letter. 

If  she  could  only  have  got  away  from  all 
thought — could  have  put  the  matter  out  of  her 
mind  as  a  history  which  perished  with  those  dead 
and  gone — a  tale  which  could  in  no  way  concern 
her.  But  this  was  impossible.  The  name  by 
which  Nathalie  had  mentioned  their  sister — yes, 
great  God,  their  sister — Nathalie's  as  well  as 
hers !  And  Nathalie  believed  her  dead ;  but 
there  was  no  actual  proof  of  that.  Elizabeth 
had  found  strength  after  Madame  La  Tour  left 
her  to  go  on  up  to  Jean  Murray's  room — had 
heard  the  story  of  the  interview  ;  Jean's  belief 
of  some  relationship  between  this  wicked  woman 
and  Meg's  mother ;  her  thankfulness  that  she 
had  been  able  to  keep  from  betraying  any  thing. 

Meg's  mother !  Oh,  it  was  too  horrible — for 
the  whole  loathsome  truth  struck  Elizabeth  at 
lengih.  Milady — Marguerite — this  was  Meg's 
mother ;  the  girl  Darrell  Vaughan  had  desert- 
ed— left  to  find  a  grave  for  her  shame  as  best 
she  could.  And  that  unknown  sister,  hers  and 
Nathalie's — this  was  Marguerite  too,  the  same 
Marguerite. 

It  was  as  if  Fate  had  taken  a  horrible  pleasure 
in  weaving  the  most  unlikely  events  into  one 
web ;  working  out  a  drama  the  most  improba- 
ble, with  a  pitiless  persistence  which  rendered 
the  slightest  unity  complete. 

So  the  night  had  gone  by.  To  be  quiet,  to 
lie  in  bed,  was  out  of  the  question.  Elizabeth 
set  the  doors  open  that  connected  her  suite  of 
chambers,  opened  the  door  even  into  the  corri- 
dor, to  afford  herself  a  longer  march,  and  paced 
up  and  down  their  length  for  hours.  A  window- 
shutter  in  the  hall  had  been  left  ajar;  the  moon- 
light streamed  in  and  trembled  across  the  floor 
like  a  ghostly  presence.  Up  and  down,  up  and 
down,  Elizabeth  passed ;  thinking,  thinking, 
watching,  her  whole  thwarted  life  spread  before 
her.  She  was  too  crushed  and  broken  for  active 
rebellion ;  worn  and  weakened  in  mind  as  well 
as  body,  yet  no  more  able  to  drive  thought  away 
than  she  was  to  seek  physical  repose. 

Ah,  no  wonder  the  shock  of  the  first  discovery 
she  had  made,  the  connection  between  Meg  and 
Darrell  Vaughan,  had  held  a  horror  deeper  even 
than  the  knowledge  of  his  sin.  No  wonder  the 
idea  of  the  lost  girl  fastened  with  such  persistency 
on  her  soul,  and  the  feeling  that  she  must  find, 
must  help  her,  had  been  like  a  command  from 
some  higher  power. 

Her  sister — hers !  Not  a  blow  spared — not  n 
love  of  her  life  allowed  to  keep  its  reverence  and 
purity  !  Sin — treachery — wretchedness — wher- 
ever she  turned.  And  what  coidd  it  avail  that 
all  this  knowledge  should  fall  upon  her  ?  What 
could  she  do — what  work  was  there  for  her  in 
the  atoning  for  these  crimes  ?  If  Marguerite 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


165 


were  alive,  how  find,  how  aid  her  ?  And  she 
was;  Elizabeth  could  neither  content  herself  with 
Mrs.  Murray's  conviction  nor  believe  Vaughan's 
tale.  The  wretched  outcast  had  not  been  freed 
from  her  misery  and  shame — she  was  alive. 
These  revelations  had  a  force  and  meaning ; 
they  came  thus  into  her  life  because  she  was  ex- 
pected to  act.  But  how — which  way  turn — 
what  step  take  even  to  learn  if  Marguerite  were 
living  or  dead  ? 

So  the  night  dragged  on.  Toward  morning 
Elizabeth  heard  a  sound  below  stairs — a  key 
turning  in  the  street-door.  Vaughan  had  re- 
turned ;  she  knew  that  it  was  not  unusual  for 
him  to  enter  at  this  hour.  She  slipped  back  into 
her  room,  and  partially  closed  the  door.  She 
never  watched  him — shrank  always  from  seeing 
him  at  such  seasons  ;  but  to-night  somehow  she 
could  not  stir — she  must  stand  there  and  look. 

Presently  he  came  up  the  stairs,  wearily,  heav- 
ily ;  passed  along  the  corridor,  carrying  a  taper 
in  his  hand.  He  was  pale  as  a  ghost — his  eyes 
gleamed  with  an  unnatural  fire — his  step  steady 
enough,  though  slow.  But  Elizabeth  was  no 
longer  blind — a  doleful  experience  had  rendered 
that  impossible.  She  knew  the  night  had  been 
spent  in  some  wild  carouse.  To  make  him  look 
as  he  did  now — like  a  coarse  spirit  of  evil  show- 
ing through  the  face  she  could  remember  so  fine, 
so  noble — was  the  only  effect  of  potations  which 
would  have  reduced  another  man  to  brutal  in- 
toxication. 

He  walked  on,  and  entered  his  chamber.  She 
closed  her  door,  crept  into  her  bedroem,  put 
out  the  light,  and  sat  there  shivering  in  the  silence 
till  at  last  the  dawn  peeped  through  the  curtains, 
and  warned  her  that  another  day  had  begun. 
Then  she  undressed  and  went  to  bed ;  and  there 
followed  the  heavy,  unrefreshing  sleep  which 
morning  often  brings  one  after  a  wakeful  night 
of  suffering. 

So  it  was  very  late  when  she  went  down-stairs. 
A  pile  of  letters  and  newspapers  lay  by  Vaughan's 
plate.  Soon  he  came  into  the  room ;  the  servant 
was  present,  so  there  were  quiet  salutations,  and 
the  idle  attempts  at  conversation  which  decorum 
demanded.  When  the  man  went  out,  Darrell 
began  opening  his  letters.  One  of  the  epistles 
was  in  the  handwriting  of  Mr.  Carstoe,  Elizabeth 
saw.  The  contents  irritated  Vaughan  evident- 
ly. He  read,  crushed  the  sheet  in  his  hand,  and 
muttered  an  oath — he  had  long  since  ceased  to 
pay  his  wife  the  compliment  of  guarding  against 
such  brutality  in  her  presence.  Formerlv  it  was 
her  habit  to  rise  and  leave  the  room  when  he 
outraged  her  in  that  manner;  but  she  had  ceased 
to  do  this.  She  could  not  escape  from  the  coarse 
horrors  of  her  life,  why  vex  him,  and  perhaps 
bring  on  a  disgraceful  scene  by  noticing  an  insult 
not  directed  her  way  ? 

He  took  up  his  newspapers  ;  among  these  she 
noticed  a  California  journal,  which  he  had  sent 


to  him  regularly  each  week.  He  had  given  the 
order  as  long  ago  as  when  he  was  in  the  Pacific 
State,  and  the  paper  still  continued  to  come — 
not  that  he  cared  particularly  for  it,  but  he  had 
grown  accustomed  to  its  arrival,  and  so  had  never 
withdrawn  his  subscription. 

Elizabeth,  seeing  him  occupied,  rose  from  the 
table  to  leave  the  room.  For  days  past  he  had 
been  in  one  of  his  moods  of  not  speaking  to  her ; 
he  would  pass  her  on  the  stairs,  or  in  the  hall, 
without  a  word — sit  at  meals  speechless,  except 
when  the  servants  were  about.  His  sullen  fits 
had  ceased  to  irritate  her,  though  there  are  few 
things  more  vexatious  than  such  conduct,  even 
on  the  part  of  a  person  to  whom  one  is  perfectly 
indifferent,  if  forced  to  live  in  the  same  house. 

She  stopped  on  her  way  out  to  look  at  some 
hyacinths  in  one  of  the  windows — delicate  pur- 
ple-and-white  blossoms,  heavy  with  a  delicious 
fragrance,  which  brought  memories  of  her  happy 
childhood — of  a  summer  she  had  once  spent  at 
her  Aunt  Crauford's  place  off  in  the  heart  of 
Pennsylvania, 

Then  she  heard  Vaughan  give  the  table  a  push 
which  made  the  cups  and  plates  rattle.  She 
glanced  instinctively  round.  If  Mr.  Carstoe's 
letter  had  vexed  him,  there  was  something  in  the 
journal  which  roused  him  to  a  more  fiery  anger. 
The  wildest  malediction,  the  most  atrocious  blas- 
phemy she  had  ever  heard  from  his  lips,  caused 
her  to  hurry  on,  eager  to  escape.  He  did  not 
notice  her ;  he  was  absolutely  tearing  the  news- 
paper with  fingers  and  teeth,  as  a  wolf  might 
worry  its  prey. 

She  knew  that  dissipation  and  evil  courses  had 
left  him  more  and  more  incapable  of  self-control, 
but  there  was  something  inexpressibly  painful  in 
this  exhibition.  He  was  so  fierce  in  look  and 
gesture  that  it  took  away  from  the  pettiness  of 
the  act.  The  show  of  emotion  was  absolutely 
terrible  from  the  possibilities  it  suggested  for  the 
future — the  danger  that  his  very  reason  had  be- 
gun to  be  troubled  by  the  reckless  degradation 
of  his  life. 

It  might  have  been  an  hour  after  that  he  en- 
tered her  morning-room,  where  she  sat  making 
a  pretense  of  work — to  read  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. Somehow,  in  the  quiet  in  which  she  was 
forced  to  sit  down,  agitated,  feverish  with  a  wild 
desire  in  her  soul  to  rush  forth — to  do  she  knew 
not  what — attempt  some  effort  at  the  task  which 
Fate  seemed  to  call  upon  her  to  perform,  and 
yet  toward  which  it  opened  no  possible  way — she 
found  a  sensation  of  comfort  in  letting  her  fin- 
gers plod  along  the  weary  hems.  No  pretty  fan- 
cy task,  no  delicate  crochet  or  ladylike  embroid- 
ery :  just  a  thick,  warm  dress  she  was  making 
for  a  pensioner ;  one  of  the  few  acts  of  usefulness 
left  in  her  power— to  her  who  had  dreamed  of 
being  a  strength,  an  aid  in  her  day  and  genera- 
tion! 

"  Didn't  I  give  you  some  papers  to  keep 


1G6 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


a  while  ago— it  mav  have  been  last  autumn  ?"  he 


asked. 


'Yes;  just  before  you  went  to  Virginia,"  she 


replied. 

"I  want  them,"  he  said; 


"they  are  the  deeds 


of  those  lots  I  bought  in  Albany— there's  a  good 
chance  to  sell/'  Then  he  could  not  resist  saying 
something  ill-natured.  "Sorry  to  disturb  your 
dolcefar  niente,"  he  sneered.  "  I  am  aware  you 
don't  like  me  to  intrude  into  this  sanctum;  but  I 
happened  to  remember  the  papers  as  I  was  pass- 
ing your  door,  and  so  ventured  to  enter." 

Last  night's  dissipation  had  left  him  pale  and 
haggard,  but  there  was  a  disturbance  in  his  face 
beyond  those  signs— a  strange  trouble  and  anx- 
iety. Elizabeth  was  thinking  this  ;  conscious 
of  pity  for  the  man  so  obstinately  bent  on  self- 
destruction.  In  spite  of  what  she  knew  him  to 
be,  she  could  not  help  remembering  there  had 
been  capabilities  in  his  nature  of  results  so  dif- 
ferent— the  possibility  of  making  a  real  good,  a 
true  use,  of  the  life  he  wasted,  grosving  daily  less 
careful  to  cover  its  baseness  with  the  veil  of  fine 
pretense  under  which  he  had  once  shrouded  its 
reality. 

Thinking  these  things  even  as  she  rose  to  seek 
the  papers,  trying  at  the  same  time  to  recollect 
where  they  had  been  put.  He  sank  into  an  arm- 
chair, and  sat  watching  her.  Had  she  glanced 
at  him  again,  she  would  have  seen  other  revela- 
tions in  his  face — a  frown  of  irritation  and  dis- 
like so  black  that  it  was  fairly  like  hatred.  He 
did  hate  her  sometimes.  She  looked  so  pure,  so 
noble  this  morning — with  a  strange  patience  in 
her  sad  eyes.  He  was  feeling  how  far  off  she 
was  from  him ;  how  something — that  religion  he 
sneered  at,  that  faith  he  held  to  be  a  weak  de- 
lusion— put  her  soul  beyond  his  reach.  And  she 
was  so  beautiful !  Even  with  a  mad  passion  in 
his  heart  for  another  woman,  her  beauty  at  this 
moment  had  its  influence.  Faithfulness  was  out 
of  the  question  in  his  nature — he  would  have 
bartered  his  soul  for  Nathalie ;  yet  that  love,  ab- 
sorbing as  it  was,  would  not  have  hindered  his 
plunging  into  the  first  disgraceful  amour  that 
chanced  to  offer  itself. 

But  though  he  felt  the  spell  of  her  beauty  as  he 
gazed,  he  was  hating  her ;  no  matter  what  oc- 
curred to  irritate  him,  however  distant  the  thing 
might  be  from  any  connection  with  her,  he  was 
always  bitter  toward  her  at  such  moments 
longed  to  do  her  a  mischief;  found  a  vent  for 
his  ill-humor  by  torturing  her  ;  felt  always  as  if 
she  in  some  way  must  be  to  blame. 

Elizabeth  remembered  where  she  had  put  the 
papers.  She  had  kept  the  desk  which  had  been 
old  Mr.Vaughan's  ;  it  was  strong,  and  the  lock 
peculiar — a  safe  receptacle  for  small  articles  that 
needed  to  be  secure.  Besides,  she  liked  having 
this  memento  of  the  dead  man  toward  whom 
her  fancy  always  turned  so  tenderly.  She  took 
the  desk  out  of  a  cabinet,  set  it  on  a  table,  sought 


her  keys  to  open  it.     Darrell,  idly  watching  her, 
noticed  the  desk — recollected  it. 

' '  Where  did  yon  get  that  ?"  he  called.  ' '  Have 
you  been  rummaging  among  my  things  ?  What 
the  devil  do  you  mean  by  such  a  performance  ?" 

She  glanced  at  him  over  her  shoulder  with  one 
of  those  looks  of  icy  disdain  with  which  she  al- 
ways met  such  attacks. 

;' You  wrote  me  to  look  for  some  deeds  that 
were  in  a  trunk  of  yours,"  she  said.  "  I  found 
this  desk  ;  it  was  empty.  I  took  a  fancy  to  have 
it — that  is  all." 

"  Oh,  don't  be  tragic  !"  retorted  he.  "  Come, 
get  me  my  papers  ;  I  can't  wait  all  day;  I  hate 
this  room  anyhow." 

In  removing  the  contents  of  the  desk  to  find 
the  deeds,  Elizabeth  came  upon  the  box  of  jew- 
els, placed  there  the  day  she  showed  them  to 
Launce  Cromlin  ;  she  had  never  recollected  to 
speak  to  Vaughan  of  their  discovery.  The  box 
was  lying  on  the  documents  she  wanted ;  she 
took  them  both  out  together.  Vaughan  had 
risen  in  one  of  his  sudden  fits  of  impatience — he 
reached  her  just  as  she  turned  from  the  table. 

"At  last!"  said  he,  rudely  taking  the  j  apers 
out  of  her  hand.  The  box  fell  upon  the  table, 
the  lid  dropped  off.  The  ring,  the  stud,  the  un- 
set jewels,  lay  in  a  little  glittering  heap  upon  the 
cloth. 

There  was  a  sound  from  Darrell  Vaughan's 
white  lips  —  something  at  once  a  groan  and  a 
curse.  The  next  instant  Elizabeth  felt  herself 
seized  in  an  iron  grasp — was  flung  forward  upon 
her  knees.  In  her  utter  bewilderment  and  con- 
fusion she  saw  her  husband's  face  bending  over 
her,  convulsed  and  awful  almost  beyond  any 
semblance  of  humanity. 

He  could  not  articulate ;  he  was  trying  to 
speak — nothing  but  gasps  escaped  him.  Specks 
of  foam  flew  from  his  lips,  his  eyes  glared  like  a 
wild  beast's.  He  shook  her  to  and  fro  as  she 
knelt.  It  was  death  at  'last !  He  would  kill 
her!  This  was  to  be  the  end.  She  was  not 
frightened ;  she  did  not  even  know  that  his 
clutch  hurt ;  only  conscious  that  his  face  meant 
murder,  and  that  there  was  a  strange  comfort  in 
feeling  death  near,  for  death  meant  freedom  — 
escape. 

"I  don't  mind!"  she  whispered,  gazing  al- 
ways into  his  mad  eyes,  not  aware  that  she 
spoke.  "  Kill  me — I  don't  mind !" 

He  pulled  her  up  from  the  floor,  and  flung  her 
into  a  chair.  He  must  have  realized  then  how- 
near  he  had  come  to  murder — the  devilish  temp- 
tation must  have  been  strong  in  his  soul  still. 
He  retreated,  made  a  spring  toward  her,  forced 
himself  back,  got  the  table  between  them,  griped 
it  with  both  hands,  and  held  himself  quiet. 

"Say  something!"  he  groaned.  "Quick! 
Call  somebody  —  get  out  of  my  reach  !  I  shall 
kill  you  this  time  —  I  can't  help  it  —  I  shall  kill 
vou!'' 


ME.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


1G7 


"  Oh,  do  it !"  she  cried,  in  a  voice  scarcely  less 
wild  than  his  own.  There  was  no  patience,  no 
fortitude,  no  thought  of  right  or  wrong,  no  recol- 
lection of  any  thing  for  the  moment  but  the  un- 
told horror  of  her  life — the  insane  longing  that  it 
should  end — no  matter  how — only  end ! 

He  staggered  down  the  chamber,  opened  the 
door,  crossed  the  corridor  into  one  of  his  rooms 
directly  opposite.  He  left  that  door  open  too. 
From  her  seat  Elizabeth  could  see  him.  He 
went  to  a  closet,  unlocked  it,  took  out  a  decant- 
er of  brandy,  more  than  half  filled  a  goblet,  and 
swallowed  the  contents  at  a  draught.  If  she  had 
wished,  she  lacked  force  to  stir  —  to  lock  herself 
in  from  danger  ;  but  she  did  not  think  of  it.  If 
she  had  any  distinct  thought  in  her  mind,  it  was 
a  feeling  of  disappointment  that  after  all  death 
had  not  come  when  it  was  so  near — so  near. 

He  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  room ;  she 
sat  and  watched  him  in  the  same  blind,  uncom- 
prehending fashion.  He  came  back  into  her 
chamber,  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  sat 
down,  still  keeping  the  table  between  them.  His 
face  was  livid  yet,  his  eyes  kept  their  sombre  fire ; 
but  the  spasm  so  like  insanity  was  over  —  the 
brandy  had  given  his  nerves  a  temporary  strength. 

"  How  did  you  come  by  those  things — I  mean, 
where  did  you  steal  them  ?"  he  asked.  "  You're 
a  thief — do  you  know  that  ? — a  thief!" 

"Oh,"  she  said,  with  slow,  concentrated  bit- 
terness, "I  might  have  known  you  were  too 
cowardly  to  murder  me — you  haven't  courage  to 
go  beyond  insult  and  outrage." 

"  Those  things  —  those  jewels  —  how  did  you 
come  by  them  ?"  he  repeated. 

Her  first  impulse  was  to  remain  silent,  but  her 
power  to  reflect,  her  better  feelings,  returned. 
The  whirl  and  confusion  left  her  brain.  She 
was  calm  enough  ;  could  recollect  that  to  tanta- 
lize him  would  perhaps  be  a  wickedness  beyond 
his  :  he  might  be  mad — she  had  sometimes  feared 
such  a  fate  for  him ;  it  might  have  come  at  last. 

"  There  is  no  secret,  no  mystery,"  she  said. 
"I  found  them  in  one  of  the  trunks  I  opened. 
I  supposed  you  had,forgotten  them — I  took  them 
out,  and  did  not  remember  to  tell  you." 

He  had  forgotten  them.  Another  of  those 
strange  lapses  of  memory  which  had  grown  more 
and  more  frequent  during  the  past  years,  tortur- 
ing him  with  a  dread  which  he  would  not  study 
nor  face.  He  leaned  his  elbows  upon  the  table, 
and  rested  his  head  on  his  hands,  pressing  them 
hard  across  it.  His  brain  reeled  ;  the  diamonds 
danced  like  specks  of  fire  before  his  eyes.  These 
mute  but  potent  proofs  of  his  guilt,  these  evi- 
dences of  that  awful  episode  which  he  had  put 
aside  as  easily  as  other  men  would  the  recollec- 
tion of  a  trifling  fault,  here  they  appeared  again. 

He  could  have  sworn  that  he  had  destroyed 
them  —  had  flung  the  box  into  the  ocean  one 
night  during  his  voyage  back  from  California. 
Then  he  remembered.  He  had  mistaken  one 


box  for  another  in  packing  his  things.  He  found 
when  too  late  that  he  had  reserved  a  box  con- 
taining a  watch  —  the  jewels  he  had  put  into  a 
trunk  which  was  down  in  the  depths  of  the  hold, 
and  could  not  be  reached. 

"When  he  changed  steamers  at  Panama  he 
would  open  the  trunk  and  get  the  jewels.  He 
had  stayed  two  days  on  the  isthmus  before  the 
Atlantic  steamer  was  ready  to  sail.  The  dull- 
ness, and  a  desire  to  convince  himself  that  the 
painful  effects  of  the  last  doze  of  hasheesh  were 
only  caused  by  some  peculiar  physical  state, 
caused  him  again  to  indulge  in  its  use. 

Lying  on  his  bed  under  the  influence  of  the 
drug,  he  had  in  fancy  enacted  the  work  he  meant 
to  do.  He  was  on  the  steamer,  he  opened  the 
trunk,  took  the  jewels  out,  and  flung  them  into 
the  sea.  It  was  all  real  —  every  link  perfect  — 
even  to  the  excuse  he  had  given  for  wishing  that 
particular  trunk  placed  in  his  state-room.  He 
had  gone  to  the  stern ;  the  moon  was  shining ; 
the  foam  looked  to  his  eyes  as  if  the  gems  he  had 
cast  down  were  rising  and  flashing  in  countless 
multitudes.  As  he  walked  back  he  had  met  the 
captain  —  they  had  talked  —  he  could  recall  the 
conversation. 

From  that  day  to  this  he  had  not  thought  of 
the  affair.  Now  here  the  diamonds  appeared 
again,  and  the  hasheesh  dream  separated  itself 
from  the  reality.  He  saw  the  dream  and  the 
fact  side  by  side  ;  yet,  though  he  realized  it  was 
a  vision,  it  looked  real  as  ever. 

And  he  had  betrayed  himself — he  could  recol- 
lect this  too.  Impossible  that  Elizabeth  should 
not  feel  there  was  an  awful  secret  connected 
with  the  jewels  after  the  insane  scene  he  hr.d 
made.  He  must  find  some  excuse,  offer  some 
reason  ;  and  his  brain  was  so  dull — his  inven- 
tion failed  so ! 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  with  a  kind  of  sudden 
hesitation.  "I'm  not  well  this  morning.  You 
couldn't  know — but  those  jewels  had  something 
to  do  with  my  uncle's  history."  (The  tale 
seemed  to  frame  itself  as  he  went  on.  Eliza- 
beth did  not  even  deign  him  a  glance.)  "  I 
thought  he  had  sold  them — got  rid  of  them  ;  he 
meant  to.  I  can't  explain — the  matter  can't  be 
talked  of  even  between  us ;  it  was  my  uncle's 
secret,  and  that  fellow's,  Launce  Cromlin." 

He  had  not  thought  of  his  cousin  a  second  be- 
fore he  spoke  ^  the  name  came  to  his  lips,  and 
he  uttered  it. 

"I  don't  wish  any  explanation,"  Elizabeth 
said,  quickly. 

•  He  looked  at  her ;  she  had  raised  her  eyes. 
She  was  perfectly  calm  and  self-possessed ;  he 
knew  that  she  did  not  believe  a  word  he  had 
spoken.  Once  more  he  felt  his  fingers  quiver 
with  the  hot  thrill  —  the  murderous  instinct 
which  had  animated  him  when  he  held  her  in 
that  stern  grasp.  He  clasped  his  hands  togeth- 
er, and  pressed  them  hard  down  on  the  table.  , 


1CS 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


"  Yes — Launce  Cromlin's  secret ;  more  of  his 
misdoing,"  he  went  on  slowly.  "  If  it  had  not 
been  for  his  conduct,  my  uncle  might  be  alive 
this  day." 

It  was  on  Elizabeth's  lips  to  defend  Launce— 
to  tell  the  man  what  she  knew  of  his  treachery, 
his  falsehoods ;  but  what  possible  good  could 
come  of  such  an  avowal?  She  sat  silent;  turned 
her  eyes  away  from  his  face,  certain  that  they 
told  the  tale  almost  as  plainly  as  words  could 
have  done. 

"Be  good  enough  to  give  me  no  explanation," 
she  said,  wearily.  "Take  the  diamonds  ;  don't 
let  me  have  to  see  them — be  obliged  to  remem- 
ber this  day." 

"  You  are  very  chary  of  hearing  any  thing 
against  our  cousin,"  sneered  Vaughan,  with  a 
sudden  look  of  suspicion. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  coldly ;  "I  believe  him  to 
be  a  good  man  :  we  need  not  talk  about  him." 

He  only  answered  by  that  same  evil  look.  He 
began  collecting  the  jewels  and  putting  them  into 
the  box. 

"This  matter  must  rest  between  you  and  me," 
he  sdd  ;  "forget  it  if  you  can.  No  one  has 
seen  the  diamonds  ?" 

"Your  cousin  saw  them,  and  Mr.  Carstoe  too," 
she  answered. 

This  time,  had  he  reached  her,  she  would 
have  been  a  dead  woman  before  he  could  have 
got  his  senses  back.  She  saw  him  coming — 
saw  the  murder  in  his  blind,  staring  eyes.  She 
was  out  of  her  chair — across  the  room — her 
hand  on  the  bell-pull.  She  was  not  frightened 
— even  the  desperate  feeling  which  before  had 
kept  her  unstruggling  in  his  grasp  was  gone. 

"  If  you  come  any  nearer,"  she  said,  "  I  shall 
ring :  it's  an  electric  bell,  remember,  and  sounds 
from  garret  to  cellar." 

He  stopped  short — her  perfect  calmness  acted 
like  a  dash  of  ice-water  on  his  frenzy.  He 
could  think  too  ;  rather,  he  could  listen  to  what 
some  power,  which  seemed  extraneous  to  his  fac- 
ulties, whispered  like  an  audible  voice.  Useless 
to  kill  her — no  harm  done  after  all ;  that  is^-no 
harm  could  come  to  him.  Carstoe  could  prove 
nothing.  Milady  even,  free,  pardoned,  as  the 
California  journal  had  this  morning  told  him, 
could  prove  nothing,  if  she  wanted  revenge.  And 
Carstoe  would  take  no  step — this  was  why  he 
had  resigned  the  agency  ;  but  that  would  be  the 
end.  Nothing  would  come  of  the  matter.  Launce 
Cromlin  himself  could  not  hurt  him.  Bah ! 
plenty  of  traders  could  be  found,  if  necessary,  to 
swear  they  sold  him  the  jewels  —  swear  they 
bought  them  in  California,  He  had  been  a  fool 
to  be  frightened — overcome.  And  there  that 
woman  stood  defying  him — knowledge  of  his 
vileness,  his  cowardice,  written  in  every  Jine  of 
her  marble-like  face !  How  he  hated  her  I  How 
he  longed  to  expose  her  to  some  awful  torture, 
some  unutterable  degradation,  which  should 


strike  body  and  soul — leave  her  incapable  to 
cleanse  either  from  the  stain,  and  then  let  her 
live  and  be  forced  to  bear  it ! 

"So,  so!"  he  cried.  "I  understand  a  few 
things  that  were  not  clear  before.  You  and 
master  Launce  hoped  to  hatch  some  plot.  I 
know  what  he  has  been  at — all  a  failure !  But 
you — I  comprehend  your  little  game  now :  you 
the  pattern  of  modesty  and  purity — you  so  re- 
ligious and  virtuous!  You're  an  infamous  wom- 
an, and  Launce  Cromlin  is  your  lover  :  I  know 
the  truth  at  last." 

She  still  kept  her  hand  on  the  bell-pull—she 
neither  stirred  nor  spoke.  He  went  back  to  the 
table,  and  thrust  the  box  of  jewels  into  his 
pocket. 

"When  you  write  to  your  paramour,''  he  said, 
"  tell  him  I  have  discovered  it  all ;  tell  him  if 
he  takes  another  step,  opens  his  lips,  I  will  com- 
mence a  divorce  suit  against  you  for  adultery, 
and  I'll  find  proofs  at  any  cost.  You  know  what 
money  will  do !'' 

She  did  not  speak — did  not  move. 

"  There  sha'n't  be  any  more  attempts  at  tle- 
corum  and  decency  between  you  and  me,"  he 
went  on  ;  "  we  look  at  each  other  just  as  we 
are,  without  disguise.  Remember — a  word,  a 
single  step,  and  you  shall  go  into  court,  and  come 
out  of  it  a  woman  so  infamous  that  you'll  find  no 
shelter  short  of  that  heaven  you're  fond  of  talk- 
ing poetry  about." 

He  spoke  partly  because  a  devil  of  jealousy 
really  had  seized  his  depraved  mind,  partly  from 
an  idea  that  he  might  frighten  her  into  begging 
Cromlin  to  be  silent,  if  there  had  been  any  idea 
of  exposure — most  of  all,  because  he  was  so  in- 
sane with  passion  that  to  hurl  the  coarse  threat 
at  her  was  a  positive  delight. 

Then  he  passed  out  of  the  room,  and  Elizabeth 
was  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
"THEN  I'LL  TELL." 

Two  weeks  went  by,  weeks  without  incident — 
without  a  break  to  the  dull  monotony  in  which 
Elizabeth  sat  dumbly  waiting  for  the  next  blow 
to  fall.  Fate  had  not  done  with  her  yet— there 
was  more  beyond  ;  it  would  come  soon. 

Lent  had  arrived.  There  were  decorously  so- 
ber festivities  to  which  she  was  invited :  she  went. 
There  was  the  ordinary  round  of  duties  :  she  ful- 
filled them.  She  and  Vaughan  met — never  r.lonc. 
If  he  entered  a  room  and  saw  her  sitting  there  in 
solitude,  he  retreated.  On — on — drifted  the  days. 
She  could  do  nothing  —  nothing.  She  was  not 
heeding  that  last  disgraceful  scene.  She  was  not 
especially  hopeless  from  this  new  degradation 
which  had  been  cast  upon  her ;  it  was  not  that. 
Marguerite— Miladv — her  sister — hers  and  Na- 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


1G9 


thalie's — a  bond  between  herself  and  this  woman 
whom  she  seemed  now  every  time  she  left  her 
house  to  meet  with  Vaughan. 

It  was  always  as  if  some  voice  urged  her  on  to 
help  that  unknown  sister — as  if  the  peace  of  de- 
parted souls  depended  upon  her  doing  it — but 
how?  Could  Nathalie  have  aided,  she  would 
have  gone  to  her.  In  spite  of  the  bar  between 
them,  the  shame  and  disgrace  which  separated 
their  lives,  she  would  have  acted  hand  in  hand 
with  her  as  if  no  Darrell  Vaughan  existed,  or  had 
been  personally  a  stranger  to  her  own  life ;  but 
Nathalie  was  powerless  as  herself. 

She  had  written  to  Mr.  Carstoe — that  was  all 
she  could  do — simply  asking  him  to  find  out  any 
thing  concerning  a  woman  called  Milady,  or  Mar- 
guerite, who  had  at  such  a  time  lived  in  San  Fran- 
cisco. She  put  the  date  which  had  been  on  the 
last  check  sent  to  Mrs.  Murray — gave  the  name 
of  the  bankers  from  whence  it  was  issued.  Hav- 
ing done  this,  she  could  only  wait,  and  she  had 
little  to  hope.  It  was  long  since  Mrs.  Murray 
had  heard  of  her  there.  Whither  since  then  the 
desperate  creature  might  have  drifted,  God  only 
knew.  She  felt  no  horror,  no  disgust,  at  the 
thought  of  this  unfortunate  woman.  Even  the 
fact  itself — separate  from  the  poor  girl — the  sin, 
the  shame,  coming  into  her  life,  did  not  horrify 
her  as  it  would  once  have  done.  In  thinking  of 
it  she  could  fancy  what  such  an  idea — the  bare 
possibility — would  have  been  to  her  in  her  early 
youth.  She  wondered  if  she  had  become  hard- 
ened, her  nature  coarse,  that  she  had  no  such 
shrinkings  now. 

Pity — that  was  her  only  sensation :  pity  for  the 
wretched,  nameless  outcast ;  a  readiness  to  help 
her ;  a  will  to  aid,  to  raise  her  up.  At  least  she 
was  not  to  be  blamed.  However  the  sins  of  others 
might  look,  there  were  pleas  for  this  creature 
which  Elizabeth  knew  the  angels  themselves 
must  heed. 

She  went  one  day  to  visit  an  old  lame  man  and 
his  paralytic  sister,  who  had  lately  fallen  under 
her  notice.  There  is  nothing  picturesque,.noth- 
ing  romantic,  to  offer  in  the  way  of  description. 
A  couple  of  bare  rooms ;  an  old  man  bending 
over  a  shoemaker's  bench,  his  poor  limbs  dis- 
torted by  the  tortures  of  rheumatism,  toiling  com- 
posedly, as  if  each  breath  were  not  an  effort,  each 
movement  a  pain.  A  woman,  almost  as  old,  ly- 
ing on  a  bed  where  she  had  lain  for  fourteen  years, 
where  she  must  continue  to  lie  till  the  strange 
vitality  which  supported  the  half-dead  frame  wore 
out.  The  paralysis  left  the  upper  part  of  her  body 
untouched  ;  she  could  talk,  use  her  hands,  man- 
age bits  of  sewing.  As  she  lay  propped  among  the 
pillows,  her  lean  fingers  moved  deftly  along  the 
seam,  and  she  was  humming  a  hymn  in  her  weak 
voice,  which  had  a  touch  of  youthful  sweetness  in 
it,  just  as  certain  flowers  will  retain  a  breath  of 
perfume  even  after  they  have  grown  withered 
and  sere. 


This  was  the  picture  that  met  Mrs.Vaughan's 
eyes  as  she  entered.  Nothing  to  make  a  dramat- 
ic scene  of  or  write  poetry  about,  as  men  do  in 
regard  to  the  old-time  martyrdoms,  which  lasted 
for  a  few  hours  only — but  God  knows  !  There 
shall  be  others  than  Peter  and  Paul,  others  than 
Catherine  and  Agnes,  and  all  the  shining  throng 
whose  history  the  world  has  kept,  whom  we  shall 
see  wearing  the  martyr's  palm  up  yonder  in  the 
light ;  men  and  women  among  whom  we  moved 
daily  in  our  blindness  here,  and  caught  no  gleam 
of  the  saint's  halo  which  encircled  their  patient 
brows. 

"  It's  nothing  but  good  news  to-day,  ma'am," 
old  Richard  said,  with  a  smile  that  lighted  up  his 
wrinkles  like  sunshine,  as  he  hobbled  after  Eliza- 
beth toward  the  bed. 

"  Nothing  but  good  news,"  repeated  old  Mir- 
iam, looking  up  at  her  visitor  with  eyes  that  were 
sweet  and  solemn  as  a  prayer.  They  had  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  a  nephew  long  supposed  to  be 
dead.  The  patient  couple  had  taken  care  of  him 
during  his  childhood  and  early  youth ;  he  proved 
a  wayward,  disobedient  fellow,  and  finally  disap- 
peared shortly  before  Miriam's  paralytic  stroke. 
But  whatever  errors  lay  in  the  past  he  desired  to 
redeem.  His  wanderings  had  ended  in  Califor- 
nia ;  his  business  was  thoroughly  established,  and 
he  promised  that,  if  it  continued  to  prosper,  they 
should  have  a  visit  from  him  in  the  course  of  the 
ensuing  year,  and  gave  the  assurance  that  tangi- 
ble proofs  of  his  gratitude  and  affection  would 
not  henceforth  be  wanting. 

"I  never  could  believe  he  was  dead,"  Miriam 
added, wiping  away  her  happy  tears.  "He  had 
a  good  heart  always,  if  he  was  a  bit  wild." — "Al- 
ways a  good  heart,"  echoed  Richard.  They  had 
a  habit  of  repeating  each  other's  statements,  as 
if  there  were  only  one  will  and  opinion  between 
them. 

Mrs.  Vaughan  must  read  his  letter  —  such  a 
beautiful  letter ;  it  had  only  come  two  days  be- 
fore— a  bank-check  with  it ;  but  welcome  as  that 
was,  the  affection  and  tenderness  were  still  more 
to  the  foolish  old  pair. 

"And  a  newspaper,  with  a  notice  of  his  busi- 
ness— quite  grand,"  Richard  said.  "Where  is 
the  paper,  Miriam  ?  Show  it  to  Madam  ;  she'll 
,  like  to  see  it,  I  know." 

"Of  course  I  shall,"  Elizabeth  said,  smiling. 
The  sight  of  the  two  old  bodies'  happiness 
came  like  a  ray  of  light  to  the  desolate  woman. 
She  was  groping  in  a  darkness  so  profound,  life 
had  reached  a  pass  so  dismal,  so  positively  loath- 
some, that  to  watch  their  faces  and  listen  to  their 
thankful  words  was  like  having  a  new  prop  sud- 
denly steady  her  tottering  faith. 

Miriam  drew  the  journal  from  under  her  pil- 
low, and  pointed  with  pride  to  her  nephew's  name 
among  the  advertising  columns.  Elizabeth  sat 
absently  turning  the  paper  in  her  hands  while 
the  pair  talked.  Its  pompous  title,  The  Call- 


170 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


fornia  Clarion,  sent  her  thoughts  back  to  the 
dreary  round  in  which  during  the  past  days  they 
had  circled  aimlessly  like  frightened  birds. 

A  paragraph  upon  the  first  page  caught  hei 
eye— just  the  heading  and  the  opening  lines. 
She  dared  not  look  again.  She  could  only  gripe 
the  sides  of  her  chair  with  both  hands,  and  strug- 
gle with  all  her  might  not  to  shriek.  She  heard 
the  two  voices  still ;  they  seemed  to  come  from 
a  great  distance.  A  gray  mist  gathered  before 
her;  she  could  see  nothing  distinctly  save  the 
half-open  journal  which  had  fluttered  into  her  lap. 

Presently  she  found  strength  to  rise,  to  speak 
a  few  words — bid  the  brother  and  sister  a  kindly 
farewell. 

"I'm  afraid  the  room  is  close,"  Miriam  said ; 
"the  Madam  looks  very  pale,  Dick,  old  man." 

"Only  a  headache,"  Elizabeth  heard  herself 
reply.  "I  would  like  to  take  the  paper, if  you 
have  read  it ;  there  is  an  article  I  want  to  look 
at." 

She  was  out  of  the  room  —  going  down  the 
stairs — so  dizzy  that  it  was  like  descending  a 
precipice.  Her  carriage  waited  at  the  door; 
she  had  taken  her  seat. 

"Where  to,  ma'am?"  the  footman  was  asking. 

"  Home."  Oh,  the  awful  mockery  of  that 
word ! 

The  journal  was  in  her  hand  still ;  she  thrust 
it  out  of  sight  among  the  folds  of  her  dress ;  she 
could  not  trust  herself  yet  to  examine  it.  The 
carriage  reached  her  house;  it  seemed  to  her 
she  had  been  making  an  interminable  journey. 
She  was  up-stairs  in  her  own  room,  the  door  fast- 
ened, the  dizziness  and  confusion  gone,  a  chill 
like  that  of  death  locking  her  senses  in  an  apathy 
which  deprived  her  of  the  power  to  feel  acute- 
ly—only  a  dull  horror  and  fright  struggling  up 
through  the  arctic  coldness  that  froze  her  soul. 

It  was  all  clear  at  last — not  a  link  wanting  in 
the  dreadful  chain  of  evidence.  She  read  an  ac- 
count of  the  pardon  which  had  been  granted  to 
the  woman  called  Milady. 

Another  specimen  of  the  manner  in  which 
justice  was  administered  in  our  land,  said  the 
journal.  What  motive  the  Governor  could  have 
had  in  his  decision  was  beyond  the  journalist's 
conception.  But  it  was  the  same  old  story. 
The  law  condemned  a  guilty  woman,  and  a  mis- 
taken sympathy,  a  morbid  sentimentalism,  set 
her  free  to  begin  n  new  course  of  crime.  A  re- 
capitulation of  Milady's  trial  followed :  the  charge 
against  her,  a  description  of  the  jewels,  Mr.  Car- 
stoe's  name,  Darrell  Vaughan's  evidence. 

The  whole  was  briefly  told,  but  when  Eliza- 
beth finished  the  paragraph  there  remained  no 
secret.  She  understood  every  thing,  from  Mr. 
Carstoe's  resignation  of  the  agency  to  Vaughan's 
mad  passion  of  the  morning. 

An  hour  passed ;  some  one  knocked.  Eliza- 
beth hid  the  journal,  rose,  and  unbolted  the  door. 
There  arc  blows  so  terrible  that  they  leave  us 


outwardly  calm  ;  they  deaden  the  soul  as  a  mor- 
tal wound  does  the  body.  She  felt  as  if  walking 
in  her  sleep  —  found  herself  wondering  if  she 
should  soon  awake. 

Prudence  Anderson  entered  the  room.  She 
had  come  to  the  town  mansion  this  winter  as 
housekeeper. 

"I'm  right  sorry  to  trouble  you,"  she  said; 
' '  but  I  want  to  ask  for  a  little  laudanum.  Jo- 
anna's been  bad  all  night  with  cholera  morbus, 
and  still  has  so  much  pain  she  can't  sleep." 

Joanna  was  a  chambermaid,  as  good  as  she 
was  ugly,  with  a  fatal  propensity  for  devouring 
things  that  agonized  her  interior.  This  time 
she  had  overdone  the  business  with  stale  lobster- 
salad,  to  which  she  had  been  treated  on  the  pre- 
vious evening  while  visiting  a  friend  with  cor- 
morantish  propensities  like  her  own. 

"Had  she  not  better  have  a  doctor?"  asked 
Elizabeth,  able  even  in  this  moment  to  be 
thoughtful  and  sympathizing. 

"No,  ma'am;  there  ain't  a  bit  of  need — the 
laudanum  will  set  her  all  right.  I'm  sorry  for 
her ;  but  the  way  she  will  make  a  cupboard  of 
her  stomach  to  turn  every  thing  into  she  can  lay 
hands  on  is  too  much  for  a  body's  patience," 
Prudence  averred.  "I  expect  every  day  I'll 
find  her  eating  a  brass  door-knob,  just  out  of 
curiosity." 

"I  will  go  and  see  her  presently,"  Elizabeth 
said. 

':  Yes,  ma'am,"  returned  Prudence;  but  she 
still  lingered.  She  looked  so  anxious  and  troub- 
led that  Mrs.  Vaughan  added — 

"Is  there  any  thing  else  the  matter?" 

Prudence  shifted  one  foot,  then  the  other; 
turned  red  and  pale,  and  finally  said — 

"  Excuse  me,  do  excuse  me,  Miss  Elizabeth." 
(She  often  used  the  old  familiar  name  when  ex- 
cited). "  Don't  take  it  for  a  liberty ;  I  ought  to 
tell  you.  We've  been  deceived  in  Mary  Lis- 
com ;  she  ought  to  leave  the  house." 

For  the  last  three  weeks  Elizabeth  had  given 
employment  to  this  young  girl  as  seamstress. 
It  is  no  matter  about  the  story.  She  was  friend- 
less— overworked  to  support  an  invalid  mother 
and  a  brutal  step-father,  until  she  fell  under  the 
notice  of  the  lady  who  had  recommended  her  to 
Mrs. Vaughan.  A  pretty  creature;  educated  be- 
yond the  station  in  which  they  found  her ;  look- 
ing positively  elegant  in  her  simple  dress.  A 
man-el  of  delicate  contours  and  wonderful  col- 
oring, such  as  only  an  American  girl  can  be ; 
with  graceful  ways,  a  merry  laugh  in  spite  of  her 
hard  fate,  and  sly,  mischievous  black  eyes  that 
brightened  her  whole  face. 

Mrs. Vaughan  and  Prudence  invented  a  quan- 
tity of  needs  in  the  matter  of  bed-linen  and 
the  like  to  give  the  girl  occupation.  Elizabeth 
would  not  even  allow  her  to  take  a  room  in  the 
sen-ants'  quarter.  She  had  quite  a  luxurious 
little  retreat  assigned  her,  with  books  and  a 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


171 


pleasant  view  from  the  windows.  Elizabeth 
could  not  sufficiently  sympathize  with  the  girl's 
pathetic  tale.  During  her  father's  life  she  had 
been  comfortably  off,  petted  and  loved.  The 
vicious  habits  of  her  mother's  second  husband 
had  dragged  them  rapidly  down,  lost  a  school 
she  had  been  teaching  in  Tarrytown,  and  ruined 
any  hope  of  her  obtaining  more  congenial  em- 
ployment than  that  of  a  needlewoman.  Eliza- 
beth trusted  later  to  find  her  a  position  as  com- 
panion to  some  solitary  lady  who  would  be  kind 
to  the  unfortunate  creature. 

Within  the  last  week  an  odd  change  had  come 
over  the  girl.  She  had  answered  Mrs.Vaughan 
petulantly,  and  was  more  than  insolent  to  good 
Prudence,  and  overbearing  with  the  servants. 

Just  as  Mrs.  Anderson  had  begun  this  com- 
plaint, Margot  appeared.  There  were  two  gen- 
tlemen down-stairs  who  wished  to  see  Madam. 
No ;  not  gentlemen  Margot  had  ever  before  seen 
at  the  house ;  there  was  the  card. 

"Dr.  Street," read  Elizabeth  aloud;  then  an- 
other name  written  in  pencil.  As  Prudence  An- 
derson heard  the  name,  she  turned  very  pale, 
and  went  unceremoniously  out  of  the  room.  All 
the  while  Margot  was  continuing  her  voluble  ex- 
planations. The  gentlemen  were  sorry  to  in- 
trude, but  they  came  on  business  important  to 
themselves ;  they  ventured  to  trespass  upon  Mrs. 
Vaughan's  well-known  kindness. 

Elizabeth  left  Margot  still  talking  and  de- 
scended the  stairs,  glad  to  escape  reflection  a  lit- 
tle longer.  As  she  entered  the  reception-room 
the  two  visitors  rose — one  an  elderly  gentleman 
with  white  hair,  who  introduced  himself  as  Dr. 
Street ;  the  other,  less  pleasing,  less  gentlemanly 
in  appearance. 

"  You  wished  to  see  me,"  Mrs.Vaughan  said, 
too  cold  and  apathetic  still  to  wonder  what  their 
business  might  be.  "Pray  be  seated." 

She  sat  down  in  an  easy- chair;  they  placed 
themselves  near  her.  She  was  conscious  that 
they  botli  watched  her  very  intently,  but  could 
not  give  much  thought.  The  doctor  began  a 
long,  rather  rambling  explanation.  He  was  the 
medical  adviser  of  a  private  hospital  on  Long 
Island ;  his  companion  was  the  manager.  Mi's. 
Vaughan's  goodness  was  so  well  known ;  Mr. 
Vaughan's  philanthropy  a  virtue  so  widely  ad- 
mired, that  they  had  ventured  to  come,  hoping 
to  interest  the  lady  in  their  undertakings.  The 
doctor  talked  as  volubly  as  Margot  herself.  He 
asked  questions  too — a  great  many — managing 
with  much  tact  to  bring  them  in  somehow,  even 
while  going  on  with  his  account  of  the  hospital, 
and  always  Elizabeth  was  aware  that  the  silent 
man  watched  her  furtively  but  keenly  from  un- 
der his  bushy  eyebrows. 

And  still  the  doctor  talked  ;  he  contrived  (it 
seemed  to  Elizabeth,  still  thinking  in  the  same 
dull,  uncomprehending  fashion)  to  mingle  every 
imaginable  subject  in  his  fervid  periods — and  yet 


the  hospital  was  the  basis  always.  He  told 
amusing  stories.  It  would  have  been  difficult 
for  a  human  creature  to  be  more  fascinating  in 
conversation.  Elizabeth  found  herself  listening 
with  interest,  chill  and  numb  as  she  felt.  Mrs. 
Vaughan's  fondness  for  music,  Mrs.  Vaughan's 
love  of  painting  —  uo  trifle  in  the  room  which 
could  bear  evidence  as  to  her  tastes  escaped  the 
physician.  Then  some  words  in  regard  to  her 
health — a  remark  that  she  looked  pale — lack  of 
exercise,  perhaps.  The  doctor  regretted  that 
his  countrymen  so  often  failed  in  that  duty ;  no 
hope  of  keeping  mind  and  nerves  in  proper  or- 
der without  due  attention  to  it.  Then,  before  one 
could  think  him  impertinent,  or  remember  that 
he  asked  odd  questions,  he  was  back  at  the  hos- 
pital again  —  a  hospital  for  nervous  patients. 
Mrs.Vaughan  would  be  interested,  he  knew,  if 
only  he  could  persuade  her  to  visit  it. 

Always  the  bushy -eyebrowed  man  watched 
her  furtively,  and  had  little  to  say.  The  doctor 
now  and  then  brought  him  into  the  conversation, 
but  talked  too  fast  for  the  silent  man  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  the  opportunity  if  he  wished. 

After  all,  what  was  the  motive  for  the  visit  ? 
Elizabeth  began  to  ask  herself  this  as  the  doctor 
talked  on.  He  had  darted  off  on  a  little  excur- 
sion to  Italy,  and  was  waving  his  plump  white 
hands  over  the  ruins  of  the  Roman  Forum,  when 
Elizabeth  got  to  that  inquiry  in  her  mind.  Did 
he  want  money  ?  The  affairs  of  the  hospital  ap- 
peared to  be  in  a  wonderfully  flourishing  condi- 
tion ;  but  all  this  eloquence,  this  circumlocution, 
this  effort  to  please,  must  mean  money.  The 
doctor  returned  from  Italy,  stopping  at  West- 
minster Abbey  on  the  road.  But  what  was  he 
saying  now,  for  still  it  was  an  effort  to  keep  her 
thoughts  fixed  any  length  of  time  upon  his 
words  ?  Her  father,  the  late  Mr.  Crauford  — 
nervousness  —  peculiar  habits  —  what  could  he 
mean? 

' '  Did  you  know  my  father  ?"  she  asked. 

The  doctor  had  never  enjoyed  that  pleasure — 
that  great  pleasure  ;  he  regretted  it  deeply !  He 
was  fond  of  studious  men !  More  compliments, 
more  pretty  speeches,  and  yet,  as  well  as  she 
could  understand,  he  seemed  somehow  to  be 
building  up  a  theory  which  connected  her  pallor 
and  her  father's  nervousness  —  the  transmission 
of  mental  ills  ;  then  leagues  off  in  generalities — 
and  the  silent  man  watching ! 

She  had  had  enough  of  it,  agreeable  as  the 
doctor  was  ;  one  could  not  think  of  calling  him 
impertinent,  and  yet  his  conversation  would  have 
been  an  intolerable  presumption  in  another.  If 
he  would  not  in  his  delicacy  come  to  the  pecu- 
niary matter,  which  must  be  his  real  errand,  she 
would  broach  the  subject  and  be  done.  She  had 
uses  enough  for  more  money  than  she  could  con- 
trol ;  a  new  duty  had  just  opened — Marguerite. 
Then  a  quick  impatience  came  over  her.  Would 
he  never  go  —  never  leave  her  free  to  try  for  a 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


ray  of  light,  some  means,  some  way  to  set  about 
the  solemn  task  which  had  devolved  upon  her  ? 

Before  she  could  speak,  Vaughan's  name  was 
on  the  doctor's  lips  again.  lie  knew  her  hus- 
band !  He  got  away  from  the  fact  with  the 
speed  of  lightning  ;  it  had  been  an  accidental  ad- 
mission— the  doctor's  one  blunder;  she  felt  in- 
stinctively that  he  had  blundered. 

"You  are  acquainted  with  Mr.  Vaughan," 
she  said  —  the  words  were  a  statement,  not  a 
question. 

The  doctor  with  another  wave  of  his  white 
hands  put  Mr.  Vaughan  away  off —  almost  be- 
yond acquaintanceship ;  but  he  had  seen  him, 
he  was  forced  to  admit  that.  Elizabeth  saw  the 
glimmer  of  a  smile  upon  the  silent  man's  lips  — 
gone  instantly  ;  but  she  was  in  the  dark  no  long- 
er. So  far  as  personal  peril  was  concerned,  she 
knew  that  never  in  her  whole  life  had  she  stood 
in  so  black  a  strait  as  this  present  crisis  —  not 
even  on  that  morning  when  her  husband's  mur- 
derous gripe  seized  her,  and  his  eyes,  threatening 
death,  looked  into  her  own.  She  felt  that  her 
face  did  not  change  nor  her  eyes  betray,  even  to 
the  doctor's  keen  gaze,  a  glimpse  of  the  discov- 
ery which  had  struck  her. 

Now  he  was  back  at  the  hospital ;  his  plans, 
his  arrangements,  the  beautiful  grounds ;  this, 
that,  and  the  other — no  matter  what — it  afford- 
ed Elizabeth  an  opportunity  to  say — 

"  You  interest  me  very  much  ;  I  should  like 
to  visit  the  place  exceedingly." 

While  the  doctor  burst  into  eloquent  thanks — 
rushed  at  the  clinching  of  the  business  by  asking 
her  to  set  a  day — Elizabeth,  smiling  at  him,  was 
able  with  a  woman's  quickness  to  study  the  silent 
man.  She  saw  a  gleam  of  satisfaction  just  as 
she  had  seen  the  passing  smile. 

Elizabeth  Vaughan  was  physically  a  brave 
woman.  Her  health  had  always  been  so  perfect 
that  even  the  suffering  of  the  past  years  had 
failed  to  shake  her  nerves.  Once  in  her  girl- 
hood she  had  been  on  a  Mediterranean  steamer 
when  a  fire  burst  out  in  the  middle  of  the  night. 
She  had  been  firm  and  composed  as  the  strong- 
est man  on  board  —  had  given  aid  and  counsel 
when  most  of  the  passengers  and  sailors  alike 
were  mad  with  fear. 

Just  as  she  had  felt  at  that  moment  she  felt 
now,  and  she  knew  the  danger  she  had  run  then 
was  less  terrible  than  the  present  peril.  She  did 
.  not  try  any  more  to  hurry  the  doctor.  She 
talked — asked  questions  too — was  cheerful  and 
affable  to  the  last.  Very  soon  she  hoped  to  be 
able  to  gratify  herself  by  a  visit  to  the  hospi- 
tal. Name  a  day  ?  "Well,  yes  ;  it  would  be  a 
disappointment  if  she  should  miss  the  doctor. 
This  was  Tuesday — say  toward  the  close  of  the 
next  week.  Would  the  Friday  but  one  be  a 
convenient  time  for  Dr.  Street?  All  days  and 
hours  of  the  doctor's  life  were  at  Mrs.  Vaughan's 
disposal.  Next  week,  Friday.  Mrs.  Vaughan 


would  take  the  rail  at  Brooklyn — no  journey  to 
speak  of.  At  Longwood  the  doctor  would  meet 
her  himself  with  a  carriage — only  half-an-hour's 
drive  to  the  Retreat.  Pretty  name,  was  it  not  ? 
Suggestive  of  quiet — rest — all  that  sort  of  thing, 
so  pleasant  to  contemplate  by  us  of  the  busy 
nineteenth  century,  with  our  high-strung,  over- 
tried,  nervous  organizations ! 

"I  have  no  doubt  Mr. Vaughan  will  accom- 
pany me,"  Elizabeth  said,  after  she  had  duly  ad- 
mired the  fitness  of  the  title,  looking  full  in  the 
doctor's  face  with  a  smile. 

This  was  positively  blissful  to  hear — a  reward 
to  the  doctor  for  the  earnest  labors  of  a  whole 
life.  He  should  dream  like  a  poet,  prosaic  as 
work  had  rendered  him,  of  the  day  which  would 
bring  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Vaughan  to  the  scene  of  his 
duties.  Next  week,  Friday  ? 

"Next  week,  Friday,"  said  Elizabeth,  still 
smiling. 

The  physician  went  out  of  the  room  a  perfect 
feu  dejoie  of  pretty  speeches,  and  the  silent  man 
followed,  dull  and  dark  as  the  smoke  in  the  train 
of  fireworks. 

Elizabeth  hurried  into  the  next  room,  which 
gave  a  view  of  the  street ;  she  wanted  to  look 
out  of  the  window  and  obtain  another  glance  at 
her  visitors.  A  door  that  opened  into  the  hall 
was  ajar — the  two  men  were  passing  it — she  dis- 
tinctly heard  the  silent  man  whisper,  "  Who'd 
have  thought  it  would  be  so  easy  to  manage!'' 
and  the  doctor's  whispered  response,  "A  clear 
case,  a  perfectly  clear  case.  Worn-out  nerves 
at  the  bottom.  Sad,  very  sad.  But  Mr.  Vaugh- 
an is  right ;  repose — guidance — all  she  needs. 
Yes,  yes." 

A  short  laugh  from  the  other — they  were  gone. 

As  Elizabeth  stood  there  motionless  the  par- 
tially open  door  was  swung  to ;  from  behind 
came  Prudence  Anderson,  pale  and  trembling. 

"I  have  been  in  this  room  all  the  while,"  she 
said,  in  a  choked,  frightened  voice  ;  "  I've  been 
listening.  Do  you  know  who  that  man  was?" 

Dr.  Street !  Elizabeth  had  recalled  her  asso- 
ciation with  the  name  before  the  interview  end- 
ed. The  scene  of  the  doctor's  labors  was  a  pri- 
vate mad-house  on  Long  Island.  Darrell  Vaugh- 
an did  not  wish  to  murder  his  hated  wife,  he  only 
meant  to  confine  her  to  the  physician's  parental 
care  amid  the  retired  haunts  of  the  Retreat. 

' '  Do  you  know  ?"  repeated  Prudence. 

"Yes,"  Elizabeth  answered. 

"  But  you  can't  understand  what  his  coining 
means;  you  couldn't  be  so  quiet!'1  cried  Pru- 
dence. '^Didn't  you  hear  what  they  whispered 
as  they  went  out  ?" 

She  caught  Elizabeth's  dress,  as  if  to  protect 
her. 

"  I  know — I  heard,"  her  mistress  replied. 

"I  remembered  him  the  minute  I  heard  Ins 
name,"  continued  Prudence.  "I  knew  what  it 
meant  —  I  listened.  He  couldn't  take  you  off, 


ME.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


173 


but  I  was  scared  all  the  same.  Oh,  Miss  Eliza- 
beth, get  away — send  for  help — do  something ! 
Oh,  don't  you  understand  what  is  afore  you  ?" 

"I  understand,"  Elizabeth  returned,  calmly 
as  before. 

"  And  you  promised  to  go  to  the  place !" 

"  That  gives  me  time,  at  least.  I  must  think 
— I  don't  know  what  to  do. " 

"You  must  speak  out  at  last!"  exclaimed 
Prudence,  with  a  flash  in  her  old  eyes.  "You 
have  borne  enough;  you  must  save  yourself! 
Oh,  don't  be  angry ;  I  can't  keep  quiet ;  I  don't 
mean  to  be  impudent.  Oh,  Miss  Elizabeth,  Miss 
Elizabeth,  no  woman  ever  stood  in  a  blacker 
danger  than  you  do  now." 

She  began  to  cry  and  wring  her  hands. 

"Hush,  Prudence,  it  is  useless  to  be  fright- 
ened ;  I  am  not." 

"You  will  go  away — you  will?" 

"I  should  be  no  safer;  he  could  follow  me," 
she  said. 

Prudence  was  past  remembering  the  difference 
in  their  positions ;  she  could  only  recollect  that 
they  were  both  women ;  that  this  unfortunate 
creature  must  be  made  to  save  herself. 

"You've  got  to  speak  out!"  she  exclaimed. 
"You've  got  to  appeal  to  your  friends — to  the 
law.  I  tell  you  there's  a  worse  danger  than  mur- 
der close  by — there's  a  m;id-house  waiting  for 
you !  Oh,  Miss  Elizabeth,  my  deaiy,  my  best, 
don't  wait — don't  waste  a  minute ! " 

In  the  agony  of  her  appeal  she  fell  on  her 
knees  before  her  mistress,  still  holding  fast  by 
her  dress. 

"Let  me  sit  down,"  Elizabeth  said.  "Get 
up,  Prudence.  Hush,  there's  no  danger  yet !  I 
can't,  I  can't !  I  have  said  there  is  only  one 
cause  that  can  give  me  a  right  to  free  myself — 
not  suspicion  either,  not  circumstantial  evidence 
— proofs." 

She  had  sunk  into  a  chair.  Prudence,  still  on 
her  knees,  held  her  fast  and  looked  up  at  her. 

"I  can  not  tell  the  world — it  is  bad  enough  to 
•have  even  you  know,  dear  soul,"  pursued  Eliza- 
beth. 

"You  won't  go — you  won't  save  yourself?" 
cried  Prudence,  in  an  altered  voice. 

"I  shall  tell  him  that  I  know — that  I  am  on 
my  guard." 

"  What  good  will  that  be  ?  You'll  be  carried 
off — shut  up  in  a  mad-house  —  do  you  hear,  a 
mad-house !" 

"  I  think  not ;  I  shall  do  my  best." 

"There's  only  one  way — the  law,  Miss  Eliza- 
beth— the  law !" 

"  Man's  law,  Prudence!"  she  groaned.  "The 
Bible  only  holds  one  permission ;  other  causes 
do  not  give  it." 

Prudence  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  Then  I'll  tell !"  she  cried.  "  I've  held  my 
peace  for  a  week,  but  I've  known !" 

At  this  instant  Mary  Liscom's  voice  sounded 


at  the  farther  end  of  the  hall ;  she  was  calling 
Margot  to  ask  Mrs.  Vaughan  if  she  might  go  out 
for  a  while.  Prudence  stopped  speaking  at  the 
tones ;  when  they  died  she  drew  closer  to  her 
mistress,  and  added  in  a  choked  whisper — 

' '  Hark  !  You  heard  her !  Ma'am,  ma'am, 
I've  known  for  a  week — even  the  Bible  won't  sup- 
port you  in  clinging  to  that  man  any  longer." 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

OUT     OP    HIS     REACH. 

THE  iron  gates  opened  with  a  discontented 
murmur,  as  if  loth  to  admit  visitors ;  the  car- 
riage passed  on  up  the  winding  road,  and  stopped 
before  the  house — a  fine  old  mansion,  surround- 
ed by  spacious  grounds,  but  so  solitary,  so  neg- 
lected, that  one  would  have  needed  to  be  either 
very  happy  or  very  miserable  to  tolerate  exist- 
ence there  any  length  of  time. 

It  was  toward  sunset  when  Elizabeth  arrived. 
She  had  left  town  by  an  early  train,  and  trav- 
eled all  day — for  many  hours  amid  the  gloom 
of  mountain  scenery,  round  dizzying  curves,  close 
to  the  edge  of  precipices,  through  black  tunnels, 
up  grades  so  steep  that  it  seemed  wonderful  the 
ingenuity  of  man  could  have  contrived  the  track, 
amid  the  shadow  of  pine  forests  odorous  with 
the  scents  of  early  spring,  musical  with  the  voice 
of  birds  and  waterfalls — on  and  on,  the  way  grow- 
ing more  tortuous,  the  engine  groaning  like  some 
living  thing  tasked  beyond  its  strength.  At  last 
the  summit  was  reached,  and  the  road  plunged 
down  the  descent  toward  the  beautiful  valley 
which  lay  sunny  and  bright  among  the  lofty  hills, 
with  the  Susquehanna  winding  slowly  through 
its  midst,  in  the  very  heart  of  the  great  Penn- 
sylvanian  mountains. 

The  train  stopped  at  the  village  station.  On 
the  previous  day  Elizabeth  had  announced  her 
arrival,  so  the  carriage  was  waiting.  She  drove 
through  the  bustling  streets,  across  the  bridge, 
and  on  toward  the  shadow  of  the  hills  where  the 
old  house  stood.  This  was  Tanglewood — Miss 
Janet  Crauford's  place.  In  her  loneliness  and 
desolation  Elizabeth  had  come  hither  to  seek 
refuge,  at  least  for  a  time.  Miss  Janet  was  the 
only  relative  she  possessed  in  the  world,  and  her 
home  seemed  the  most  fitting  haven. 

Three  days  had  elapsed  since  into  the  misery 
of  Elizabeth  Crauford's  life  came  the  crowning 
degradation  which  caused  her  to  fling  down  her 
burden — throw  off  the  weight  of  the  galling  chains 
she  had  worn  so  long. 

She  could  fix  her  mind  on  but  one  thought 
— that  determination  to  get  away,  to  flee  and 
cleanse  her  soul  from  the  impurity  about  her ; 
as  a  wretch  suffocated  by  the  stench  of  a  noisome 
pit  might  employ  the  last  remnant  of  his  strength 
to  struggle  out.  To  get  away — that  was  the  one 


174 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


thought.  She  could  not  even  pray.  For  the 
time,  though  she  did  not  realize  it,  she  was  al- 
most as  far  from  the  possibility  of  Divine  help  as 
if  she  had  given  voice  to  anathemas  and  cursed 
God  and  man.  To  go — to  flee !  She  had  reached 
the  point  where  even  the  Bible  admits  that  duty 
ends. 

Perhaps  the  hardest  thing  of  all  was  the  ne- 
cessity of  confiding  to  human  ears  the  hitherto 
jealously  guarded  secret  of  her  married  life. 
Even  in  that  hour  of  supreme  suffering  it  was  a 
terrible  humiliation  to  her  great  pride ;  but  there 
was  no  possibility  of  avoiding  it  now.  She  sent 
for  Sir.  Howland — she  told  what  was  necessary 
to  tell  in  Darrell  Vaughan's  presence.  It  was 
the  first  intimation  the  bad  man  had  received  of 
her  full  knowledge  of  his  guilt.  The  case  was 
perfectly  clear — if  Vaughan  offered  the  least  op- 
position, the  law  could  be  called  in  to  protect 
her.  Utter  disgrace  to  him  would  follow  upon 
exposure,  and  the  circumstantial  evidence  there 
was  of  his  having  contemplated  carrying  out  that 
most  awful  treachery  against  her  with  the  assist- 
ance of  the  mad-house  doctor  would,  he  knew 
well,  in  the  hands  of  an  eloquent  counsel,  make 
a  tale  that  must  blast  him  forever. 

The  scene  was  quiet  enough.  I  do  not  de- 
scribe it — I  see  no  good  purpose  that  such  de- 
scription could  serve.  Vaughan  was  sullen,  but 
he  could  refuse  nothing  that  was  demanded,  and 
Mr.  Howland's  claim  went  beyond  what  Eliza- 
beth would  have  asked,  though  perfectly  just. 
Mrs. Vaughan's  fortune  must  be  restored  to  the 
last  penny.  This  was  a  hard  thing  to  Darrell. 
During  these  past  years  he  had  become  very 
rich,  as  we  know;  his  dealings  with  the  Ring 
had  absolutely  thrown  millions  into  his  coffers ; 
but  it  was  as  hard  to  give  up  what  belonged  to 
his  wife  as  if  it  left  him  poor,  though  in  reality 
he  would  scarcely  miss  the  amount  from  his  dis- 
honestly won  treasures. 

Elizabeth  left  the  two  men  together,  and  the 
matter  was  arranged  before  they  separated.  Mr. 
Howland  remained  perfectly  cool ;  but  he  would 
hear  of  neither  compromise  nor  delay.  Vaughan 
had  his  choice  between  restoring  the  money  at 
once,  signing  a  confession  which  would  render 
him  powerless  in  any  way  to  trouble  his  wife  for 
the  future,  or  to  stand  a  trial  by  law. 

"She'd  never  do  that,"  he  said;  "she's  too 
cursedly  proud.  Come,  come,  Howland,  you're 
going  beyond  your  instructions." 

"  She  will  do  it  if  there  is  no  other  way  to 
gain  her  liberty,"  the  other  replied.  "And  I 
may  as  well  tell  you  honestly  that  if  she  faltered, 
I  should  send  for  Miss  Janet  Crauford,  and  she 
would  commence  a  suit  as  Mrs. Vaughan's  near- 
e-t  relative.  You  know  enough  of  that  old  lady 
to  be  certain  she  would  not  hesitate." 

So  the  man  yielded,  signed  the  necessary  pa- 
pers, and  Mr.  Howland  went  out  of  the  room  to 
find  Elizabeth,  carrying  the  warrant  of  her  free- 


dom in  his  hand.  There  would  be  no  exposure, 
no  gossip  even.  Mrs.  Vaughan  would  go  to  her 
aunt — nothing  more  natural  than  that  she  should 
be  required,  considering  Miss  Crauford's  age  and 
feeble  health.  Later  she  could  visit  Europe; 
Mr.  Vaughan's  business  and  political  duties  would 
serve  as  an  excuse  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  for 
his  remaining  behind.  If  gossip  and  hints  did 
at  last  arise,  at  least  there  would  be  no  scandal. 
Vaughan  need  fear  nothing  so  long  as  he  left  his 
wife  unmolested  ;  but  that  he  must  do.  Not 
even  so  much  as  a  word  or  an  insinuation  could  he 
permit  himself.  The  instant  that  should  happen, 
Mr.  Howland  assured  him  every  detail  would  be 
made  public  ;  and  Vaughan  knew  the  man  with 
whom  he  had  to  deal. 

He  hated  to  give  her  up ;  love  of  power  was 
as  strong  as  his  greed  for  wealth.  He  hated  to 
see  her  slip  from  his  hands — to  know  that  he 
could  never  torture  her  again,  never  visit  disap- 
pointment or  ill-temper  upon  her.  "With  it  all 
he  was  faithfid,  like  the  rest  of  humanity,  to  his 
inconsistency.  Even  with  a  mad  passion  for 
another  woman  burning  in  his  soul,  this  pale, 
worn  beauty  of  Elizabeth's  looked  suddenly  pre- 
cious again,  now  that  she  had  passed  out  of  his 
reach  forever. 

So  the  end  had  come.  Darrell  himself  spoke 
of  the  visit,  and  Society  thought  the  proceeding 
natural  and  wise.  Miss  Crauford  Avas  old  and 
ailing,  and  veiy  rich,  he  said ;  of  course  a  per- 
son to  be  cared  for  and  cherished,  even  at  the 
expense  of  a  temporary  separation  between  hus- 
band and  wife. 

Prudence  Anderson  was  going  away  too  ;  she 
had  no  mind  to  remain  in  the  house,  and  long 
years  of  service  had  given  her  a  competency 
which  enabled  her  to  seek  repose. 

Neither  she  nor  Elizabeth  forgot  the  weak, 
miserable  girl  who  had  fluttered  to  ruin  like  a 
moth  toward  a  candle.  They  did  the  best  pos- 
sible for  her,  hoping,  or  trying  to  hope,  that  her 
anguish  and  promises  were  the  result  of  contri- 
tion, not  merely  the  effect  of  shame  at  discovery. 

The  end  had  come  !  Elizabeth  said  that  over 
and  over  to  herself  during  the  days  of  hurried 
preparation.  Liberty  was  not  precious  to  her — 
she  had  no  use  to  make  of  it.  The  future  could 
hold  nothing  —  not  even  a  hope.  There  would 
be  a  round  of  little  duties,  years  of  quiet  without 
rest.  Life  was  so  long,  and  she  was  young  yet ! 
She  had  often  pitied  the  old  for  having  to  sit  pas- 
sive and  see  others  live  —  no  interest,  no  strong 
inducement  left ;  and  this  fate  had  come  upon 
her,  and  she  was  in  the  fullness  of  youth  and 
strength. 

Oh,  it  was  hard,  hard  !  God  was  cruel  to  her 
—  existence  a  curse!  She  knew  at  length  that 
faith  itself  was  slipping  from  her,  and  she  could 
not  hold  it  fast,  she  was  too  frozen  and  apathetic 
even  to  pray. 

All  over — the  journey  accomplished — she  had 


MB.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


175 


done  with  the  past.  The  sound  of  the  carriage- 
wheels  brought  old  Thomas  and  Jane  Flint, 
her  aunt's  chief  adherents,  upon  the  veranda. 
Elizabeth  had  paid  a  yearly  visit  to  Tanglewood 
since  her  return  from  Europe,  so  her  arrival  ex- 
cited no  surprise  in  their  minds,  though  she  had 
naver  before  come  so  early  in  the  season. 

It  was  March  now.  The  sheltered  valley  was 
already  beautiful  with  promises  of  spring.  The 
trees  were  in  leaf,  the  young  grass  green  upon 
the  lawn,  the  crocuses  and  hyacinths  brightened 
the  garden  walks.  Elizabeth  paused  for  a  few 
seconds  on  the  veranda  and  looked  about.  The 
house  stood  upon  an  eminence;  she  could  see 
for  miles  down  the  narrow  vale.  There  was  a 
sweep  of  pasture-lands,  groves,  and  cultivated 
farms.  Pleasant  homesteads  peeped  out  here 
and  there.  Tiny  villages  nestled  along  the  val- 
ley's length,  the  river  wound  like  a  silver  mist 
through  its  heart,  the  blue  hills  shut  in  the  far 
distance  on  every  side,  and  the  soft  spring  sky 
bent  toward  them,  bright  with  sunshine  and 
white  fleecy  clouds.  The  whob  formed  a  pict- 
ure of  tranquil  loveliness,  which  struck  on  the 
confusion  and  coldness  of  her  soul  like  an  added 
pain.  Thomas  and  Jane  Flint  were  busy  super- 
intending the  removal  of  her  luggage  into  the 
house — nobody  had  time  to  notice  her.  She  had 
sfiome  quite  alone  —  she  could  not  bear,  for  the 
present,  to  see  a  single  face  that  had  been  about 
her  in  the  desecrated  home  from  which  she  had 
fled,  so  even  her  maid  was  left  behind.  The  sun 
was  setting  ;  the  amber  and  pink  clouds  billowed 
up  in  the  west ;  the  breeze  brought  the  voice  of 
the  rh%r  and  the  murmur  of  the  pines  ;  a  thrush, 
perched  in  the  topmost  boughs  of  an  acacia,  sang 
his  evening  hymn ;  from  the  distant  farm-yard 
came  the  lowing  of  cattle,  the  bleating  of  sheep 
—  all  the  pleasant  sounds  of  country  life  which 
had  once  been  so  sweet  and  full  of  poetry  to 
her. 

It  was  inexpressibly  sad  and  dreary  now,  the 
whole  scene.  She  felt  a  vague  surprise  at  the 
.beauty  and  freshness  about ;  the  new  life  and 
growth  of  spring.  It  seemed  wonderful  that  the 
earth  could  remain  so  fair  under  its  burden  of 
human  wretchedness.  She  passed  into  the  en- 
trance-hall, and  walked  on  through  the  solitary 
apartments  toward  a  room  where  her  aunt  al- 
ways sat,  opened  the  door,  and  entered. 

Every  thing  looked  as  she  expected — certain- 
ly there  was  no  brightness  here  to  vex  her  weary 
eyes.  The  windows  gave  a  view  of  the  shrub- 
beries, which  grew  neglected  and  wild ;  rose- 
bushes and  woodbines  trailed  over  the  casements, 
and  helped  to  shut  out  the  light.  For  years  Miss 
Crauford  had  suffered  greatly  with  her  eyes,  and 
had  chosen  this  gloomy  nook  for  her  special 
haunt,  just  because  it  was  shadowy  and  dark. 

Nothing  in  the  cold  rigidity  of  the  place  had 
altered,  from  the  old-fashioned  chairs  ranged  in 
a  solemn  row  against  the  wall,  to  the  figure  that 


sat  in  the  centre  of  the  room  knitting  mechan- 
ically, yet  as  assiduously  as  if  a  human  fate  were 
being  woven  into  the  web.  Upright  and  stiff  she 
sat — a  tall,  gaunt,  pale  woman,  dressed  in  dull 
gray,  without  a  speck  of  color  to  relieve  its  som- 
breness,  hair  of  the  same  hue  as  her  dress,  a 
face  which  looked  taciturn  and  cold,  almost  grim. 
There  were  traces  of  pain  and  suffering  in  every 
feature,  but  suffering  borne  in  silence,  and  with 
a  fortitude  which  came  as  much  from  obstinacy 
as  patience.  This  was  Elizabeth's  aunt,  old  Miss ' 
Janet  Crauford,  who  had  lived  here  alone  among 
the  shadows  for  more  than  thirty  years.  "  Is 
that  you,  Elizabeth?"  she  called  as  the  door 
opened  and  the  visitor  paused  upon  the  thresh- 
old. "  I  heard  the  carriage,  so  I  supposed  you 
had  come.  I  can't  get  up — it's  one  of  my  blind 
days. " 

The  voice  was  not  even  fretful ;  there  would 
have  been  a  humanity  somewhat  refreshing  in 
that — just  cold  and  emotionless,  as  if  a  stone  or 
something  entirely  beyond  the  reach  cf  sympathy 
with  this  world  had  spoken. 

"Yes,  Aunt  Janet,  I  have  come,"  answered 
Elizabeth,  going  toward  her.  "  How  do  you  do  ? 
Will  you  kiss  me  ?" 

"How  do  you  do,  Elizabeth?  But  I  shan't 
kiss  you — you  know  I  never  do  kiss  any  body. 
You  are  at  home  now — you  know  what  to  do 
with  yourself.  Jane  Flint  has  got  rooms  ready 
for  you — here  is  mine  when  you  want  to  see  me. 
Make  yourself  comfortable  in  your  own  way. 
Don't  expect  me  to  listen  to  any  complaints. 
From  first  to  last  you  have  chosen  for  yourself. 
You  married — I  suppose  to  please  yourself.  Now 
you  have  left  your  husband,  to  please  yourself 
too ;  so  there's  an  end  of  it.  George  Howland 
wrote  me  all  that  was  necessary  for  me  to  know, 
and  there's  never  any  use  in  talking  over  what's 
inevitable." 

She  spoke  without  the  slightest  change  of  tone 
or  emphasis,  her  fingers  never  pausing  in  their 
task. 

"  No  use  whatever,"  Elizabeth  answered  ;  "  I 
am  not  likely  to  trouble  you  with  complaints." 

' '  No ;  that  wouldn't  be  your  way ;  you're  a 
real  Crauford.  More  than  one  could  say  for 
your  father,  who  liked  nothing  so  much  as  to  get 
hurt  and  cry  over  it,"  resumed  the  passionless 
tones.  "  I  dare  say  your  husband  was  as  bad 
as  possible  ;  he  wouldn't  be  a  man  if  he  hadn't 
been." 

"  I  told  you  I  did  not  mean  to  complain,  Aunt 
Janet." 

"  It's  possible  you  were  not  perfection,  though 
you  would  hardly  be  a  woman  if  you  did  not 
think  you  had  been.  Just  fancy  we  have  droned 
on  for  the  past  few  years  as  we  shall  do  till  you 
are  tired  of  staying,  and  we  shall  do  well  enough  ; 
there's  no  good  in  looking  back." 

"Do  well  enough!"  repeated  Elizabeth,  me- 
chanically. 


17G 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


"  Oh,  there's  worse  in  life  than  that,  dull  as  it 
sounds,"  said  Miss  Janet. 

"  Yes,  there's  worse  than  that,"  replied  Eliza- 
beth. "  I  will  go  up-stairs  now." 

"  Jane  Flint  will  have  dinner  for  you.  I  dine 
early,  you  know." 

"  I  only  want  some  tea,"  Elizabeth  said  ;  "  I 
am  afraid  I  have  kept  you  waiting  for  that." 

"  If  my  hour  had  come  I  shouldn't  have  wait- 
ed," returned  Miss  Janet ;  "  it's  not  half-past 
six  yet." 

Elizabeth  went  close  to  the  upright  woman  and 
kissed  her  forehead  ;  Miss  Janet  permitted  the 
caress,  but  did  not  return  it.  As  her  niece  was 
moving  away,  however,  she  touched  her  arm  with 
one  of  her  lean,  cold  fingers. 

"  I  dare  say  you  endured  more  and  longer  than 
most  women  would  have  done,"  she  said,  in  a 
voice  that  had  softened  slightly.  "You  were 
never  a  coward,  and  you  were  never  weak.  But 
knowing  you  were  right  won't  make  you  happy, 
and  my  sympathy  won't;  so  things  must  just 
stay  as  they  are. " 

A  stranger  would  have  thought  her  utterly  un- 
feeling, but  Elizabeth  knew  her  better.  For 
thirty  long  years  Miss  Janet  had  been  an  inva- 
lid and  a  misanthrope,  but  she  was  not  a  stony- 
hearted woman.  She  believed  in  few  people  — 
professed  to  doubt  all.  She  simply  could  not  al- 
low herself  the  luxury  of  being  sympathetic  and 
demonstrative.  If  she  had  given  way  in  the 
least  she  would  have  suffered  a  whole  night's 
physical  agony,  and  she  had  learned  to  breathe, 
eat,  move,  and  sleep  by  rule,  as  the  only  means  of 
avoiding  or  rendering  less  frequent  the  terrible 
paroxysms  of  nervous  pain  to  which  she  was  sub- 
ject. Almost  her  first  words,  "It's  one  of  my 
blind  days,"  possessed  full  significance  .to  Eliza- 
beth. She.  understood  that  the  reading  of  Mr. 
Rowland's  letter — the  brief  explanation  neces- 
sary— had  shaken  Aunt  Janet  out  of  her  enforced 
composure,  and  brought  on  the  usual  result  of 
agitation. 

"  When  the  old  place  gets  unbearable  youll 
have  to  go  away,"  Miss  Janet  added,  picking  up 
her  work  again.  "  There's  little  company  to  be 
had  in  the  neighborhood,  and  if  there  were  I  can't 
bear  noises.  I'm  a  nuisance,  of  course,  but  as 
long  as  this  old  machinery  insists  upon  working, 
out  of  order  as  it  is,  I  can't  help  that.  You  must 
endure  it  while  you  can,  and  then  go  away. " 

"I  have  no  doubt  it  will  do  very  well, Aunt 
Janet,"  said  Elizabeth.  "  There'll  be  peace  at 
least." 

"  Hum !"  returned  the  old  maid.  "  There'll 
be  quiet  enough  and  dullness  enough.  Well, 
well !  Now  go  and  see  what  Jane  Flint  has  done 
for  you  in  the  way  of  chambers,  and  come  back 
for  some  tea. " 

Elizabeth  met  that  important  personage,  Jane 
Flint,  in  tho  hall,  and  Jane  told  her  of  the  dread- 
ful day  and  night  Miss  Crauford  had  passed. 


"  The  least  thing  upsets  her !  The  very  idea 
of  expecting  you,  I  dare  say,  was  enough.  But 
she's  been  better  since  yesterday.  I'm  glad  vou've 
come,  ma'am,  and  I  hope  you  can  stay  a  good 
while ;  she  oughtn't  to  be  so  much  alone,  it's  my 
opinion." 

So  even  in  the  first  hour  of  her  arrival  Eliza- 
beth was  able  to  see  that  a  duty  had  opened  be- 
fore her,  neither  dignified  nor  heroic,  but  one 
that  needed  to  be  fulfilled — petty,  wearisome,  as 
it  might  sometimes  appear,  just  as  important  as 
the  framing  of  monarchies  or  freeing  of  peoples  ; 
the  plan  of  the  universe  holds  no  trifle. 

Elizabeth's  days  settled  at  once  into  an  un- 
varying monotony.  She  rose  early,  walked  in 
the  grounds  or  rode  on  horseback,  breakfasted 
with  Miss  Janet,  and  devoted  as  great  a  portion 
of  the  time  to  her  as  the  spinster  would  permit. 

"  I'm  not  used  to  being  coddled,  and  too  much 
of  it  would  give  me  an  indigestion,"  she  said,  and 
by  that  Elizabeth  knew  she  liked  her  companion- 
ship, found  pleasure  in  her  ministrations.  Life 
seemed  ended,  so  far  as  personal  hopes  and  aims 
were  concerned,  but  there  was  still  something  to 
do  for  others — not  always  a  pleasure,  not  always 
easy,  but  she  did  what  she  could.  She  would 
not  sit  weakly  down  and  lament.  She  must 
struggle  through  the  night  and  find  daylight  be- 
yond. At  least  she  might  gain  such  reliefs  as 
come  to  age — resignation  and  faith  ;  patience  to 
wait  till  her  existence,  so  blighted,  so  dwarfed, 
should  find  its  resurrection  in  the  sphere  beyond 
this. 

Not  long  after  her  arrival  at  Tanglewood  she 
sent  for  Jean  Murray  and  little  Meg.  There 
was  a  pretty  cottage  on  Miss  Crauford's  estate 
which  the  old  lady  placed  at  her  disposal,  and 
here  she  installed  the  two.  The  child  must  be 
henceforth  her  care  ;  and  without  revealing  the 
truth  to  the  Scotchwoman,  she  put  the  matter  in 
a  light  which  showed  Aunt  Jean  she' had  no 
right  to  oppose  a  determination  that  would  offer 
the  girl  a  future  so  different  from  any  thing  her 
love  or  care  could  hope  to  effect. 

Elizabeth  waited  with  great  anxiety  to  receive 
news  from  Mr.  Carstoe,  but  no  letter  came.  She 
knew  he  would  not  neglect  her  mission  ;  it  could 
only  be  that  he  failed  so  far  to  find  any  trace 
of  Marguerite,  and  was  postponing  his  answer 
until  he  had  some  certain  information  to  give. 

She  had  been  a  month  at  Tanglewood  ;  it  was 
the  close  of  an  April  day.  Elizabeth  had  been 
far  up  the  river  in  a  little  boat  which  she  rowed 
herself,  drifting  along  among  the  mountain 
shadows,  trying  to  forget  mental  weariness  and 
pain  in  physical  fatigue.  Lame  Dick  was  not 
in  sight  when  she  rowed  her  boat  to  the  landing 
near  a  gate  which  gave  admittance  to  her  aunt's 
grounds.  Some  one  was  standing  on  the  shore 
— a  gentleman.  He  approached  as  a  sweep  of 
her  oars  sent  the  light  bark  up  on  the  sand — it 
was  Launco  Cromlin. 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


177 


He  had  spoken  her  name,  uttered  common- 
place salutations,  and  helped  her  out  of  the  boat 
before  she  could  decide  whether  the  meeting 
were  a  pleasure  or  a  pain. 

"  You  are  surprised  to  see  me,"  he  said ;  "but 
I  hope  not  too  much  so  to  be  glad." 

"I  supposed  you  away  in  Germany  or  Italy," 
she  answered.  ' '  When  did  you  come  back  from 
Europe  ?" 

"I  did  not  go,  Mrs.  Vaughan,"  returned  he. 
"  I  have  been  in  California." 

"Then  you  have  seen  Mr.  Carstoe,"  she  said, 
quickly ;  "  you  can  tell  me — " 

He  interrupted  her  by  a  smile  and  a  gesture 
of  his  hand.  She  looked  in  the  direction  he  in- 
dicated, and  saw  Mr.  Carstoe  coming  toward 
them  round  a  point  of  the  shore.  Elizabeth 
hurried  forward  to  meet  the  old  man  with  both 
hands  extended.  She  had  not  believed  any 
thing  could  give  her  a  sensation  of  such  pleasure 
as  did  the  sight  of  his  ugly,  honest  face  lighted 
up  with  emotion.  The  three  stood  there  and 
talked  for  a  few  moments.  There  were  no 
questions  asked  her — no  astonishment  was  man- 
ifested. She  comprehended  that  in  some  way 
both  men  had  become  acquainted  with  the  change 
which  had  taken  place  in  her  life.  She  shrank 
from  the  idea  of  publicity,  but  at  least  their 
knowledge  would  spare  her  interrogatories  diffi- 
cult to  answer.  Though  both  avoided  any  re- 
mark which  could  trouble  her,  they  talked  freely 
enough  of  themselves  and  the  affairs  which  had 
brought  them  into  her  neighborhood. 

A  distant  relative  of  Cromlin's,  on  his  father's 
side,  had  died  a  few  months  previous,  and  left 
Launce  a  valuable  mining  property  near  the 
village. 

"  As  I  am  not  a  business  man,"  Cromlin  said, 
"I  persuaded  Mr.  Carstoe  to  leave  California, 
and  come  East  with  me." 

"Which  means,"  Mr.  Carstoe  explained, 
"  that  he  has  offered  me  a  partnership,  and  a 
chance  to  realize  a  competency  in  my  old  days." 

Cromlin  had  accompanied  his  friend  into  the 
valley  to  see  him  fairly  established  in  the  busi- 
ness, and  later  in  the  spring  meant  to  start  upon 
his  long-deferred  journey  to  Europe.  They  were 
living  at  a  house  which  belonged  to  Launce,  not 
far  from  Tanglewood.  The  place  would  con- 
tinue to  be  Carstoe's  home,  and  it  was  pleasant 
to  Elizabeth  to  think  she  should  have  the  kind 
old  man's  companionship.  It  was  dusk  before 
she  remembered  that  Miss  Janet  would  be  wait- 
ing for  her  tea.  The  two  gentlemen  walked 
with  her  through  the  grounds,  and  she  invited 
them  to  enter  the  house.  She  left  them  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  went  to  tell  her  aunt  what  she 
had  done,  though  scarcely  expecting  that  she 
would  see  the  visitors.  But  during  their  con- 
versations Elizabeth  had  often  spoken  of  Mr.  Car- 
stoe, and  the  old  lady  chose  to  break  over  her 
rule  of  seclusion  and  receive  him. 
M 


"  Who's  the  other  ?"  she  asked.  "  Oh,  yes— 
Launce  Cromlin — Vaughan's  cousin  ;  not  much 
in  his  favor  that.  But  he  can  come — they  can 
both  come  if  they  like  ;  I  shaVt  go  to  the  draw- 
ing-room. Ring  for  lights  first,  unless  you  want 
them  to  break  their  necks." 

So  Elizabeth  conducted  them  to  the  apart- 
ment, and  Miss  Crauford  received  Carstoe  with 
a  nearer  approach  to  cordiality  than  she  often 
vouchsafed  any  one.  Then  Elizabeth  presented 
Cromlin. 

"Hum!"  said  Miss  Janet.  "How  do  you 
do,  sir?  If  you  choose  to  shake  hands  with  a 
half-blind  old  woman,  you  can.  I  knew  your 
father  long  before  you  were  born  ;  he  was  an 
honest  man,  and  that's  saying  a  great  deal.  I 
don't  suppose  you  can  be  like  him,  for  two  honest 
men  would  be  too  much  to  expect  in  one  family." 

Launce  laughed  at  the  odd  speech,  took  the 
cold  hand  she  extended,  and  said — 

"I  hope  you  will  try  to  believe  a  little  good 
of  me  for  my  father's  sake." 

"I  never  believe  any  thing,"  returned  Miss 
Janet.  "  Just  now  I  want  my  tea,  and  so  do 
you,  I  dare  say." 

"Yes,"  Cromlin  answered;  "I  have  been 
sketching  all  day,  and  ate  a  cold  dinner,  so  I  lay 
claim  to  a  very  unromantic  appetite." 

"  So  much  the  better ;  I  hate  romance.  Why 
didn't  you  turn  peddler  instead  of  artist  ?" 

"  On  account  of  the  difference  in  the  pack  I 
should  have  had  to  carry,"  he  replied,  laughing 
again. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?"  demanded  the  unscru- 
pulous spinster,  suddenly. 

"  I  am  thirty,"  he  said,quietly,  as  if  the  ques- 
tion had  been  the  most  ordinary  one  in  the 
world. 

"Thirty,  and  you  can  laugh  like  that!  So 
could  your  father.  Well,  it  would  be  odd  if  you 
turned  out  a  decent  man  too." 

"  At  least  you  will  like  my  laugh  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  have  forgotten  how,  and  Eliza- 
beth's— " 

"Oh,  never  mind  me,  aunt,"  she  interrupted. 

"But  I  do  mind!"  retorted  Miss  Janet. 
"Elizabeth's  laugh  sounds  like  thorns  crackling 
under  a  pot ;  the  only  consolation  is,  I  don't 
hear  it  often. " 

"Shall  I  ring  for  the  tea,  aunt?"  asked  her 
niece. 

"  No ;  Jane  Flint  has  been  punctual  for  fifteen 
years  ;  we'll  see  if  she  fails  at  the  end." 

But,  faithful  to  the  moment,  Jane  just  then 
appeared  with  the  tray. 

As  a  rule,  Miss  Janet  hated  to  be  helped  in 
any  manner,  doing  every  thing  for  herself  that 
her  glazed  sight  would  permit ;  but  Cromlin 
managed  to  pull  the  table  toward  her,  and  make 
her  comfortable  in  a  variety  of  little  ways,  with- 
out calling  forth  the  reproof  which  Elizabeth 
momentarily  expected. 


178 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


He  talked  pleasantly  ana  well,  and  made 
Elizabeth  and  Carstoe  talk  also.  If  Miss  Janet 
did  not  speak  much,  she  at  least  refrained  from 
any  of  the  frosty  sarcasms  wherewith  it  was  her 
habit  to  congeal  the  blood  of  such  luckless  vis- 
itors as  she  admitted  to  her  presence. 

After  a  time,  Mr.  Carstoe  found  an  opportu- 
nity to  speak  alone  with  Elizabeth. 

"I  received  your  letter,"  he  said.  "  I  should 
have  answered  it,  only  I  knew  that  I  should  reach 
New  York  as  soon  as  my  reply." 

"  And  have  you  any  news  for  me  ?" 

He  had  not  yet  heard  from  Mrs.  SimpsCn  of 
Milady's  disappearance. 

He  told  Elizabeth  that  Marguerite  had  a  com- 
fortable home ;  was  overlooked  by  a  trusty  wom- 
an. He  thought  it  better  to  leave  her  where  she 
was,  at  least  for  the  present. 

"God  bless  you!"  whispered  Elizabeth. 
"You  do  not  know  what  a  weight  you  have 
lifted  from  my  mind." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  great  pity  in  his  face, 
stretched  out  his  hand,  drew  it  back,  and  lapsed 
quickly  into  one  of  his  shy,  awkward  moods. 
Elizabeth  knew  the  signs. 

"You  have  something  else  to  tell  me," she 
said. 

"Yes — I  think  I  ought ;  we  shall  all  go  on 
easier  it  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  hesitatingly. 

"Tell  me." 

"Only  that  Cromlin  saw  his  cousin  in  New 
York.  Mr.  Vaughan  chose  to  explain  to  him 
that — that  your  absence  was  likely  to  be  a  long 
one ;  in  fact,  that — " 

"I  saw  you  both  knew," Elizabeth  hastened 
to  add.  "  Yes,  it  is  better." 

"You — you  feel — how  sorry  I  am— how  I 
would  give  my  right  hand  if  it  could  serve 
you — " 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  as  he  broke  down  again. 
"  You  are  a  good,  good  man— I  thank  you.  But 
do  not  be  troubled  or  unhappy  about  me ;  at 
least  I  have  peace  and  quiet  here.  Life  looks 
dark  and  confused.  I  seem  to  be  of  no  use,  to 
have  no  place ;  but  I  try  to  be  patient." 

"And  there's  all  the  life  beyond,"  he  said, 
softly  ;  "  it  must  come  right  there — it  must." 

Then  they  went  back  to  Miss  Janet  and  Crom- 
lin ;  the  subject  was  at  an  end. 

At  last  Jane  Flint  appeared  to  conduct  the 
old  lady  to  her  chamber.  The  clock  was  on  the 
stroke  of  ten,  and  nothing  short  of  an  earthquake 
would  have  prevented  military  punctuality  on 
Jane's  part. 

Mr.  Carstoe  was  horrified  when  he  discovered 
how  long  a  visit  they  had  made,  but  Miss  Janet 
put  his  excuses  unceremoniously  aside. 

"If  I'd  wished  you  to  go,  I  should  have  told 
you,"  said  she.  "  You'll  always  find  our  tea- 
table  laid  at  the  same  hour,  and  you'll  be  wel- 
come at  it  just  as  often  or  as  seldom  ns  you 
choose  to  come.  That  invitation  is  for  Mark 


Cromlin's  son  too.  Good -night,  every  body. 
Jane  Flint,  give  me  my  stick  and  your  arm,  and 
take  up  the  line  of  march." 

Elizabeth  walked  to  the  door  with  the  two  vis- 
itors, and  stood  absently  looking  out  into  the 
moonlight  as  they  passed  down  the  road  to  the 
gates.  Once  they  turned  to  look  at  her,  but  she 
did  not  see  them.  They  spoke  very  little  of 
her,  confidential  as  they  were  on  most  subjects. 
Neither  had  expected  to  find  her  here — neither 
had  known  where  Miss  Crauford's  home  was. 
This  new  glance  into  her  desolate  life,  this  sight 
of  her  pale,  beautiful  face,  with  such  unrealizable 
capacities  for  happiness  still  visible  through  its 
pain,  tore  both  their  souls  with  pity  and  grief, 
which  it  seemed  a  desecration  to  mock  with 
words. 

The  next  evening  but  one  Launce  called  at  the 
house  again ;  Mr.  Carstoe  was  occupied,  and 
could  not  come.  Cromlin  understood  that  the 
one  kindness  possible  was  to  rouse  Elizabeth  out 
of  herself.  He  talked  on  every  subject  which 
could  touch  her  old  enthusiasm  for  beauty  and 
art,  and  appealed  so  frankly  for  sympathy  in  his 
own  pursuits  that  she  could  not  fail  to  listen. 
Miss  Janet  let  him  converse  as  unreprovedly  as 
she  had  done  before,  and  even  asked  a  question 
now  and  then,  which  showed  that  she  was  inter- 
ested. 

"  Have  you  no  piano  here,  Mrs.  Vaughan  ?" 
Launce  asked. 

"  Yes,"  Miss  Janet  answered  for  her;  "there's 
one  in  the  drawing-room  that  she  sent  a  couple 
of  years  ago." 

"  It  must  be  sadly  out  of  tune,"  added  Eliza- 
beth. ' '  I  have  not  opened  it  since  I  came  here. " 

"There's  a  tuning-key  in  that  table-drawer, 
if  Mr.  Cromlin  knows  how  to  use  it, "  said  Miss 
Janet.  "Only,  if  yon  drum,  don't  do  it  loud 
enough  for  me  to  hear. " 

Launce  promised  not  to  disturb  her,  found  the 
key,  and  insisted  on  being  shown  the  piano  at 
once ;  so  Thomas  was  ordered  to  take  lights  into 
the  drawing-room. 

"I  am  starved  for  music,"  Launce  said.  "  I 
have  not  played  for  weeks,  and  bits  of  the  '  Songs 
without  Words '  have  been  haunting  me  all  day." 

Elizabeth  led  the  way  to  the  drawing-room-— 
in  perfect  order,  thanks  to  Jane  Flint's  care, 
though  seldom  used,  and  a  degree  more  old- 
fashioned  in  its  decorations  than  Miss  Janet's 
apartment.  V 

"Now  go  away,  please,"  said  Launce.  "I 
don't  wish  to  torture  your  ears  by  the  tuning 
process." 

Elizabeth  left  the  room,  and  wandered  out  of 
the  house,  walking  for  a  long  time  in  sight  of  the 
moonlit  river.  As  she  approached  the  dwelling, 
a  delicious  melody  made  her  pause.  Cromlin 
was  playing  a  strain  of  Beethoven's — a  wild,  spir- 
itual movement  from  one  of  the  sonatas,  which 
sounds  as  if  some  spirit  newly  freed,  and  still  op- 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


17'J 


pressed  by  the  shadows  of  this  world's  troubles, 
were  questioning  and  receiving  consolation  from 
a  mighty  angel. 

The  chord  was  struck.  Elizabeth  sat  down  in 
the  shadow  of  the  veranda  and  wept ;  blessed 
drops,  which  refreshed  her  as  tears  had  not  done 
for  months,  flowed  from  her  eyes.  "When  she 
grew  calm  again,  she  entered  the  drawing-room. 
Cromlin  had  turned  down  the  lamps  and  opened 
the  windows  wide.  The  moonlight  flooded  the 
apartment,  and  in  that  heavenly  radiance  he 
awakened  the  hidden  life  in  the  cold,  white  keys 
till  Elizabeth's  pulses  throbbed  in  new  harmony. 

For  a  while  he  neither  noticed  nor  addressed 
her.  At  last  he  turned  round  from  the  instru- 
ment, saying  gently — 

"  Has  it  done  you  good  ?" 

"  Thanks,"  she  answered. 

"And  to-morrow  will  you  try  for  yourself?" 
he  continued.  "  Will  you  sing  for  me  then  ?" 

She  bowed  her  head. 

"  I  must  go  now,;)  he  said.  "  I  hope  I  have 
not  disturbed  Miss  Crauford." 

"  Miss  Crauford  is  here,"  replied  a  voice  from 
the  door. 

There  she  stood,  upright  and  grim,  leaning  on 
her  stick.  Jane  Flint  appeared  in  the  back- 
ground, with  the  moonbeams  weaving  a  silvery 
tracery  across  her  black  gown. 

"  You  must  be  the  devil,"  observed  Miss  Ja- 
net. "  I  haven't  listened  to  any  body's  music  in 
twenty  years." 

'With  those  words  she  turned  about,  took  Jane 
Flint's  arm,  and  marched  away. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

' '  WHAT   GOD   HATH   JOINED   TOGETHEE. " 

Six  weeks  passed ;  spring  was  deepening  into 
summer.  There  are  no  words  to  paint  the  love- 
liness of  those  charmed  days,  the  glory  of  those 
azure  nights,  the  weird  melodies  the  river  sang 
as  it  hurried  away  beneath  the  shadow  of  the 
cliffs,  the  marvelous  beauty  which  wrapped  the 
mountain  valley  in  its  glow. 

Launce  Cromlin  still  lingered,  though  the  time 
he  had  set  for  his  departure  had  come  and  gone. 
Mr.  Carstoe  was  greatly  occupied,  full  of  interest 
and  enthusiasm  for  his  new  business — delighted 
to  keep  Launce 's  society  as  long  as  he  might. 

Cromlin's  daily  presence  at  Tanglewood  had 
become  a  matter  of  habit.  Miss  Janet  herself 
seemed  to  think  it  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world  to  see  him  there.  He  wandered  with  Eliz- 
abeth among  the  hills ;  he  talked  to  her  while  he 
sketched  ;  read  sweet  poets  when  they  paused  to 
rest ;  and  evening  after  evening  made  the  piano 
talk  inspiringly  to  her  tired  spirit.  He  persuad- 
ed her  to  sing  in  her  rich  contralto  voice  till  her 
own  pain  was  hushed  under  the  harmony,  and 


his  soul  floated,  all  unaware,  further  and  further 
into  a  charmed  realm. 

No  tidings  from  the  world  without  came  to 
rouse  them;  there  was  nothing  to  break  the 
quiet.  Even  in  the  man's  mind  there  was  not 
a  breath  of  consciousness  ;  the  sympathy  which 
bound  them  had  no  sex.  It  was  the  free  com- 
munion of  two  kindred  souls,  who  had  put  earth 
aside — as  may  happen  to  certain  natures  for  a 
brief  season — and  met  without  restraint  in  the 
beautiful  land  whither  their  feet  had  unwittingly 
strayed. 

So  time  went  on. 

One  evening  he  did  not  appear  at  the  usual 
hoar.  Elizabeth  walked  up  and  down  the  long 
veranda,  sat  for  a  brief  space  at  the  piano,  play- 
ing snatches  of  the  melodies  she  had  caught  from 
him,  oppressed  by  a  vague  restlessness  which  was 
not  pain — oh,  as  unlike  the  Elizabeth  of  these 
later  years  as  if  her  soul  had  gained  its  resurrec- 
tion, and  stood,  too  bewildered  and  entranced  to 
think,  upon  the  shore  of  the  Infinite. 

A  step  aroused  her.  Old  Miss  Janet  stood  by 
the  piano,  peering  into  her  face  with  those  dim 
yet  watchful  eyes. 

"I  am  going  to  bed,"  were  her  first  words. 
"My  back  aches.  It  will  rain  in  just  two  days. 
I  shall  keep  my  room  till  it  is  over." 

"  Can  I  do  any  thing  for  you,  aunt  ?"  Eliza- 
beth asked. 

"  Nothing  but  let  me  alone.  My  back  is  mine, 
and  I'm  my  back's ;  if  it  wants  to  ache,  it  must 
and  shall." 

Elizabeth's  white  hands  strayed  idly  over  the 
keys. 

' '  Humph !"  said  Miss  Janet,  suddenly.  ' '  Eliz- 
abeth Crauford  !" 

"  Well,  aunt  ?" 

"Have  you  made  up  your  mind  to  do  what 
another  woman  would  have  done  long  ago  ?" 

"  I  don't  understand, "Elizabeth  said,  puzzled, 
yet  startled  by  the  odd  speech. 

"Have  you  decided  to  get  a  divorce ?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  How  dare  you  ?"  she 
exclaimed. 

"  I  neither  say  I  would  nor  wouldn't,"  pursued 
Miss  Janet ;  "  the  law  permits,  and  other  people 
do  it.  I  only  asked  if  that  was  what  you  meant. " 

Elizabeth's  hands  dropped  in  her  lap  ;  a  ghast- 
ly pallor  spread  over  her  face. 

"  Aunt  Janet !  oh,  Aunt  Janet !"  she  moaned. 

Reproach,  sudden  consciousness,  an  awful  ter- 
ror— all  these  emotions  were  in  her  voice. 

"If  you  don't,"  continued  the  spinster, " play 
no  more  Beethoven,  and  show  your  painter  the 
way  out  of  the  valley.  Now  my  back  and  I  will 
go  to  bed." 

She  left  the  room,  closing  the  door  behind  her. 

Elizabeth  slid  slowly  forward  in  her  seat  till 
her  head  rested  upon  the  keys.  These  words 
bad  been  a  lightning  flash  which  showed  her 
soul  where  it  stood. 


180 


ME.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


A  voice  called—"  Elizabeth !" 

She  looked  up.  In  the  open  window  stood 
Launce  Cromlin.  One  glance  at  his  face  was 
enough.  He  too  had  heard. 

"Elizabeth!"  he  repeated.  The  tone  was 
nearly  a  whisper  now,  trembling  with  emotion 
akin  to  the  terror  which  shook  her,  but  a  great 
joy  quivered  through  it. 

He  came  slowly  toward  her.  She  could  not 
move ;  could  only  look  into  his  face  with  dumb 
perplexity  and  fright. 

"God  is  my  witness  that  I  never  thought," 
he  went  on,  "never  once — not  a  feeling  in  my 
heart  that  you  could  blame ;  and  I  thank  Him 
for  it." 

He  stood  leaning  heavily  on  the  piano,  and 
looked  down  at  her. 

"I  seem  to  have  lived  a  whole  life  since  she 
spoke," he  went  on :  "a whole  life.  It  all  looks 
so  different.  I  was  so  used  to  seeing  you  bound, 
shackled,  helpless  in  the  purgatory  where  you 
had  been  dragged,  that  I  forgot  you  were  free — 
free !" 

The  wild  joy  lighted  his  face  anew,  and  made 
a  heaven  in  his  eyes  that  gazed  straight  into  her 
own. 

Then  through  her  confusion  and  blindness  she 
heard  his  voice  still.  He  was  telling  the  story 
of  their  first  meeting,  when  she  had  not  seen  his 
face — telling  the  story  of  the  treachery  which 
had  separated  them  so  long.  After  the  first  in- 
stants of  pain  and  fright  there  was  a  season — she 
could  never  tell  whether  it  lasted  minutes  or  hours 
— during  which  the  whole  material  world  passed 
out  of  sight,  and  no  sound  or  {bought  save  that 
man's  voice  and  his  glowing  words  could  reach 
her. 

"In  the  sight  of  God  you  are  already  free; 
man's  law  will  make  you  equally  so  before  the 
world.  Oh,  Elizabeth !  you  do  care — you  know 
it  now !  Ah,  let  us  be  happy.  Have  pity  on 
yourself  as  well  as  me.  Think  of  all  you  have 
suffered.  Do  not  reject  the  happiness  which 
opens  before  us  at  last. " 

The  solemn  words  of  the  marriage  service 
rushed  to  her  lips,  not  from  any  direct  volition, 
but  as  if  some  unseen  influence  had  uttered  them 
through  her — 

'"What  God  hath  joined,  let  not  man  put 
asunder.'" 

"It  is  not  yon  who  have  done  it,  Elizabeth. 
That  man  has  wrought  all  the  sin ;  but  his  acts 
leave  you  as  free  as  though  he  had  never  cast  his 
shadow  across  your  path.  The  sin  would  have 
been  in  continuing  his  wife  after  he  had  broken 
every  vow,  and  made  marriage  void  and  null. 
But  his  wrong-doing  can  not  wreck  your  whole 
life :  that  would  be  bearing  punishment  for  him. 
You  are  more  widely  separated  than  if  death  had 
parted  yott — free  to  choose  your  own  path,  free 
to  claim  the  happiness  which  every  human  being 
has  a  right  to  expect." 


"I  can  not  think,"  she  moaned.  "All  the 
old  landmarks  are  swept  away.  God  help  me,  I 
have  no  guide,  nowhere  to  cling ! " 

"Take  my  hand,  Elizabeth — trust  yourself  to 
me.  My  great  love  could  not  misguide ;  believe 
in  it,  cling  to  it,  and  it  shall  be  a  light  to  show 
us  across  these  mists  into  a  new  world." 

It  had  come  upon  her  so  suddenly — it  was  as 
if  she  had  been  lifted  bodily  into  a  new  sphere ; 
she  could  not  think.  He  was  telling  her  of  the 
future  that  lay  before  them — he  was  opening  his 
heart,  and  revealing  the  treasures  of  love  hidden 
there.  He  employed  every  argument  which  his 
eloquence  could  furnish  to  prove  to  her  that  in 
the  sight  of  God  and  man  she  was  free. 

Verily  there  was  reason,  there  was  a  show  of 
right  under  it  all. 

Heaven  itself  could  not  demand  the  sacrifice 
of  a  whole  life  to  a  bond  which  sin  had  deprived 
of  sacredness.  It  was  only  a  broken  shackle 
which  galled  her  heart  and  held  her  a  prisoner 
by  her  own  weakness,  since  with  a  single  effort 
she  might  wrench  it  away,  sweep  every  trace  of 
the  past  aside,  and  enter  a  future  as  completely 
separated  from  it  as  if  she  had  indeed  reached  a 
new  cycle  of  existence. 

It  was  not  these  arguments  which  moved  her 
most.  She  listened,  and  tried  to  believe  when 
he  told  her  that  God  gives  every  human  being  a 
right  to  happiness ;  that  the  blind  superstition 
which  could  make  her  still  cling  to  the  wreck 
from  which  every  hope,  every  living  thing  had 
gone  down,  was  madder,  more  fanatical,  than  the 
frenzy  which  induces  the  Indian  woman  to  cast 
herself  upon  the  funeral  pyre  of  her  husband — 
it  was  none  of  these  things  that  touched  and 
swayed  her. 

But  when  he  talked  of  her  as  his  wife,  painted 
their  future  as  it  should  pass,  honored  by  the 
world's  sanction,  and  rendered  so  beautiful  by 
their  love,  it  seemed  as  if  heaven  opened  to  her 
sight,  and  she  had  but  to  extend  her  hand  to  bs 
raised  forever  into  its  glory. 

And  she  loved  him  —  she  realized  this  too. 
Not  the  affection  a  young  girl  gives,  which  is 
half  from  the  necessity  of  loving  that  belongs  to 
extreme  youth,  half  made  up  of  dreams  and  ideal 
imaginings ;  but  the  love  of  a  soul  matured  by 
suffering.  The  love  of  a  heart  gentle  and  wom- 
anly in  spite  of  all  thwarting  influences,  which 
recognized  its  likeness  in  the  man  beloved,  and 
sprang  up  eager  to  grasp  its  long-delayed  bliss. 

What  wonder  if  her  first  impulse  was  to  snatch 
at  this  promise  of  peace,  crying  out  with  him  that 
she  had  a  right — a  right  to  claim  it.  Think 
what  her  life  had  been.  Kemember  how  the 
dream  of  her  girlhood  was  torn  away — not  dis- 
pelled slowly,  but  rudely  crushed — without  warn- 
ing— every  heart-chord  strained,  every  good  feel- 
ing shocked  ;  vice  and  sin  bared  to  her  shrinking 
gaze,  forced  ruthlessly  upon  it,  till  the  last  trust 
in  humanity  died  out,  and  she  flung  herself  down 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


181 


among  the  ashes  of  her  ruined  offerings,  and 
called  upon  the  desecrated  altars  to  crush  her. 

Remember  the  horrible  years — and  now  their 
contrast !  A  contrast  offered  so  suddenly,  so 
utterly  without  warning,  that  she  had  no  time 
to  steel  her  soul  by  a  thought  of  former  creeds, 
of  doctrines  held  sacred,  even  by  a  prayer — God 
help  her ! 

The  old  life,  with  its  clouds  from  spent  tem- 
pests, its  ruins,  its  pale  corpses,  its  charnel-house 
odors — not  alone  securely  shut  out,  but  hurled 
resolutely  into  the  tomb  of  the  past,  as  far  be- 
yond any  possibility  of  contact  with  her  future 
as  that  existence  which  we  sometimes  fancy  was 
ours  before  this  sphere  claimed  us. 

Was  it  strange  that  she  faltered  ? — was  it  un- 
natural ?  Was  it  to  be  wondered  at  if  she  caught 
at  the  theories  which  possess  much  reason  and 
weight,  in  regard  to  the  carrying  out  of  which  we 
have  no  right  to  judge  where  individual  instances 
are  concerned,  however  we  may  disappro^/e  of 
them  in  the  abstract  ? 

And  he  was  saying — 

"  Let  me  think  for  you — trust  yourself  to  me ; 
put  your  hands  in  mine,  and  let  me  lead  the  way." 

Many  women  in  this  strait  would  have  done 
so  blindly,  and  perhaps  have  reproached  tho 
man  afterward.  Elizabeth  could  not  act  thus. 
As  in  the  future,  if  she  accepted  this  new  destiny, 
she  would  take  courageously  a  full  share  of  the 
blame,  if  blame  there  were,  so  in  the  contempla- 
tion of  that  act  she  must  exercise  her  own  judg- 
ment, and  walk  side  by  side  with  him,  supported, 
not  led.  She  could  remember  this,  confused  as 
her  brain  was. 

"The  acts  necessary  to  free  you  from  your 
trammels  are  no  more  in  reality  than  a  law  proc- 
ess to  enable  you  to  procure  any  other  property 
withheld  from  you ;  and  what  you  claim  is  your 
freedom,  your  life !" 

It  was  strange,  but  his  very  arguments  brought 
up  with  new  force  the  beliefs  which  had  always 
been  hers. 

" '  What  God  hath  joined,  let  not  man  put 
asunder,' "  she  repeated. 

"But  the  bond  is  broken — you  are  free.  You 
do  not  consider  that  man  your  husband  ?" 

"No,  no!" 

"You  would  not,  under  any  circumstances — 
no  matter  if  he  repented,  if  he  tried  to  atone — 
believe  it  right  to  return,  and  live  with  him  after 
his  sin  has  annulled  your  marriage  ?" 

"No,  never!" 

"Then  you  are  free!  The  scruples  which 
would  make  you  hesitate  are  dead,  without  pow- 
er in  the  mind  of  any  liberal  man.  The  very 
warning  pronounced  by  Christ  against  the  of- 
fending husband  or  wife — the  injunction  that  he 
or  she  put  away  for  sin  is  forbidden  to  many — 
proves  that  the  innocent  one  is  free  in  every  re- 
spect." 

Then  he  ceased  to  argue.    He  was  telling  her 


again  of  the  life  that  should  be  theirs— the  sweet 
haven  of  rest — the  new  day !  There  was  his 
stronghold ;  more  potent  far  than  all  his  argu- 
ments. 

"  We  would  travel,  Elizabeth — not  among  the 
ruins  of  the  old  world— we  are  sick  of  men  and 
their  follies.  Such  journeys  into  the  far  West 
— out  on  the  boundless  prairies,  and  farther  on, 
the  healing  wind  of  the  mountains!  And  the 
tropical  scenery  you  love  so  much.  Oh,  we  will 
find  that  out  first !  Don't  you  remember  that 
description  we  were  reading  the  other  day  of  the 
old  Chilian  city?  We  shall  have  one  of  those 
picturesque  houses  at  the  foot  of  the  hills,  with 
the  sea  in  front  —  just  we  two  in  the  world 
alone." 

It  was  no  longer  as  a  possibility  that  he  spoke 
of  these  things — it  was  the  present  time  in  his 
excitement. 

"  Think  of  the  long  golden  days — the  nights 
with  such  moonlight  as  they  saw  in  Eden — shar- 
ing every  pleasure,  every  task — our  lives  growing 
always  more  closely  into  one,  till  even  death  could 
not  separate  us,  but  needing  either,  must  claim 
both." 

Could  she  think? — was  reflection  possible? 
She  only  looked  into  his  face,  and  in  all  the  world 
there  was  no  sight  but  the  glory  of  his  eyes,  no 
sound  but  the  music  of  his  voice. 

"  You  will  go,  Elizabeth !  Think— every  day- 
wasted  is  so  much  happiness  lost !  Eternity  it- 
self can  never  give  back  an  hour  of  neglected 
bliss — you  will  go  !" 

The  scent  of  the  tropical  wind  seemed  to  diz- 
zy her  brain ;  she  heard  the  waving  palm-trees 
whisper  of  peace  and  rest.  The  low  rush  of  the 
sea  bade  her  follow  him. 

"  Come,  Elizabeth,  come !" 

The  very  words  the  blessed  palms  and  the  sil- 
ver sea  had  uttered — "  Come,  come !" 

And  her  whole  soul  was  lost  in  a  wild  longing 
to  float  away  over  the  molten  billows  into  the  new- 
world,  the  fadeless  Eden  !  Only  one  thought,  one 
feeling:  that  overwhelming  wish  to  be  gone — at 
once  ;  not  to  have  time  for  fear  or  doubt — away 
into  the  shadow  of  the  palm-trees,  and  within 
reach  of  the  siren  voice  of  the  silver  sea. 

It  had  grown  very  late.  The  house  was  so 
still  that  it  seemed  as  if  they  were  solitary  in 
the  world.  The  full  radiance  of  the  moon  lay 
about  them  like  a  promise  of  peace,  and  still 
Launce  Cromlin  talked  with  the  force  and  pow- 
er a  man  possesses  when  heart  and  conviction  in- 
spire his  words. 

And  it  was  so  ;  for  the  time  every  argument 
was  truth  to  him. 

Elizabeth  was  torn  and  weak  from  emotion ; 
a  thousand  diverse  thoughts  tugged  at  her  soul 
and  left  her  powerless. 

' '  Only  go  away  to-night, "  she  pleaded.  "  Give 
me  time — only  a  little  time." 

He  saw  how  pale  and  worn  she  was,  and  took 


182 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


pity  on  her.     He  did  not  even  offer  to  touch  her 
hand. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said,  softly,  and  was  gone. 

She  did  not  know  how  she  reached  her  cham- 
ber—could not  tell  whether  the  hours  that  inter- 
vened had  brought  sleep  or  insensibility;  but 
•when  the  early  summer  dawn  flashed  into  the 
sky  she  was  lying  on  her  bed,  gazing  straight  be- 
fore her ;  every  sense  stupefied,  every  limb  rigid, 
as  if  she  had  just  awakened  from  a  cataleptic 
trance. 

Then  a  dull,  cold  pain  stirred  at  her  heart,  like 
a  benumbed  snake  warming  into  vitality  and 
slowly  uncoiling  itself— grew  sharper  and  hotter, 
till  every  fibre  of  her  frame  responded  with  phys- 
ical agony  to  the  suffering  in  her  soul. 

Through  the  closed  curtains  brighter  gleams 
of  daylight  shot  in,  and  troubled  her  by  their 
curious  glances.  She  shrouded  her.  face  in  the 
counterpane,  and  tried  to  sleep,  but  there  was  no 
Eastern  drug  which  could  have  lulled  her  to  re- 
pose. 

At  last  Jane  Flint's  niece  Hannah  knocked  at 
the  door,  as  she  had  been  bidden  to  do  each  morn- 
ing. Elizabeth  had  just  sense  and  strength 
enough  to  answer  that  she  was  unwell,  and  should 
not  leave  her  room  that  day.  Then  she  was  left 
to  herself  once  more. 

Without  sleep  to  bring  forget  fulness,  without 
a  tangible  thought  on  which  to  steady  her  mind, 
the  morning  dragged  away.  Later,  she  heard 
steps  on  the  veranda.  Her  room  was  at  the 
front  of  the  house,  and  every  nerve  had  become 
so  overstrung  that  her  hearing  was  painfully 
acute.  She  knew  that  Launce  had  come ;  she 
heard  his  voice  in  parley  with  old  Thomas,  then 
his  retreating  steps. 

More  hours  of  mad  restlessness.  At  last  her 
soul  fastened  upon  one  word  Launce  had  spoken, 
and  clung  to  it  as  if  it  had  been  an  anchor.  His 
wife — his  wife !  Only  that ;  but  the  words  were 
a  spell  which  deadened  pain  and  raised  a  magic 
barrier  against  thought. 

At  length  the  nervous  tension  gave  way,  and 
she  sank  slowly  to  sleep  with  those  blessed  words 
upon  her  lips. 

The  sun  was  setting  when  she  awoke.  Han- 
nah had  entered  the  room,  and  stood  near  the 
bed  ;  she  and  Jane  Flint  had  grown  alarmed. 

"Are  you  better,  ma'am ?"  the  girl  asked. 

Elizabeth  looked  at  her  wonderingly.  She 
could  not  recall  her  dreams,  but  it  seemed  as  if 
her  soul  had  been  absent  from  her  body,  and  that 
it  was  with  a  struggle  it  returned. 

Hannah  opened  the  curtains  and  shutters,  and 
the  dull  red  of  evening,  precursor  of  a  storm, 
streamed  across  the  chamber. 

Elizabeth  arose  and  began  to  dress — slowlv, 
wearily— like  a  person  recovering  from  a  long 
illness. 

I  shall  bring  you  some  tea  and  something  to 
eat,"  Hannah  said.     "Miss  Crauford's  in  bed 


too ;  she  won't  get  up,  though  there  ain't  much 
the  matter." 

By  the  time  Elizabeth  was  dressed  the  girl 
returned  with  the  tea  and  such  edibles  as  Jane 
Flint  thought  might  please  her. 

It  was  growing  twilight  when  she  descended 
to  the  drawing-room.  Thomas  had  only  lighted 
the  lamps  in  the  hall,  and  they  cast  just  radiance 
enough  into  the  apartment  to  make  a  pleasant 
gloom.  Elizabeth  lay  down  on  a  sofa,  and  re- 
mained listening  to  the  rising  swell  of  the  wind 
and  the  angry  murmurs  of  the  river. 

For  a  long  time  there  were  no  other  sounds, 
but  the  outer  door  opened  at  length.  The  rush 
and  whirl  began  anew  in  her  mind,  and  the  phys- 
ical pain  responded  to  it  as  before. 

Launce  Cromlin  entered,  and  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment looking  about  among  the  shadows.  He 
saw  her,  and  hurried  toward  the  conch.  She 
put  up  her  hands,  as  if  in  sudden  fear. 

"  You  are  not  afraid  of  me  ?"  he  said,  sadly. 
"  You  are  ill ;  how  wrong  I  have  been !  Let  me 
sit  here ;  I'll  not  distress  you  by  word  or  look ; 
at  least  accept  my  companionship  in  your  loneli- 
ness." 

He  drew  a  chair  close  to  the  sofa,  and  sat 
down,  talking  kindly  and  gently,  till  gradually  a 
sensation  of  delicious  rest  stole  over  her  tired 
soul.  It  was  not  until  he  rose  to  go  that  he 
made  even  an  allusion  which  could  disturb  her. 
Then  he  said,  "  We  will  not  think  ;  we  will  not 
question.  For  a  few  days  let  us  be  quiet  here, 
away  in  this  charmed  land  where  the  world  can 
not  reach  us." 

She  accepted  his  verdict  for  the  time  ;  rest  and 
sleep  came  that  night. 

She  only  saw  her  aunt  for  a  few  moments  dur- 
ing the  next  day.  Miss  Janet  still  kept  her  bed, 
though  the  storm  had  passed,  and  she  confessed 
that  her  back  was  no  worse  than  usual. 

"  I'll  get  up  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "  Let  me 
alone,  else  I  shall  turn  rusty  and  cross." 

Toward  sunset  Launce  came  to  the  house  and 
persuaded  Elizabeth  to  walk  a  little  way.  They 
stood  by  the  river,  and  watched  the  gorgeous 
lights  pale  on  the  mountains.  The  twilight  float- 
ed down :  that  glory  which  is  neither  of  night 
nor  day  rested  on  all  things  ;  and  amid  its  quiet 
they  returned  to  the  old  house,  standing  up  un- 
der the  gloom  of  the  cedars. 

Launce  talked  ;  he  played  her  favorite  melo- 
dies ;  and  distinctly  through  both,  so  blending 
witli  his  words  and  music  that  each  seemed  to 
grow  out  of  the  other,  she  heard  the  soft  whis- 
pers of  the  palms,  the  tender  murmurs  of  the 
Southern  sea. 

"  Elizabeth  !"  he  said,  suddenly. 

There  was  a  tone  of  inquiry  in  his  voice  that 
brought  her  wholly  back  to  the  present.  The 
question  which  rose  in  her  mind  was  the  impulse 
of  the  moment — she  had  not  been  thinking,  had 
not  meant  to  ask  it,  but  it  was  on  her  lips. 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


183 


"Have  you  always  believed  iu  divorce?" 
were  the  words. 

Cromlin  grew  a  little  pale. 

"  I  have  always  believed  that,  under  certain 
circumstances,  it  became  a  sin  for  a  woman  to 
remain  in  bondage — for  a  man  to  hold  to  the 
unfaithful  wife,"  he  replied. 

"Have  you  always  believed  it  right  for  the 
injured  husband  or  wife  to  marry  again  ?" 

"I  had  never  thought  it  clearly  out,"  he  said, 
tremulously;  "nothing  had  ever  brought  the 
matter  home  to  me." 

"  One  creed  or  the  other  you  must  have  held," 
she  replied,  slowly,  and  her  voice  was  low  and 
firm.  "  You  never  did  believe  it  right ;  you 
have  answered  me." 

"But  I  do!"  he  cried.  "I  have  no  doubt. 
The  Romish  Church  has  again  and  again  grant- 
ed divorce — our  own  Church  permits  it.  Ask 
the  best  friends  you  have — Mr.  Carstoe,  your 
aunt.  They — " 

She  interrupted  him  by  rising  from  her  seat. 
Her  face  was  like  that  of  a  dead  woman.  He 
could  scarcely  believe  it  her  voice  which  an- 
swered. 

"I  must  ask  my  God,"  she  said.  "I  had 
forgotten — oh,  I  had  forgotten  !" 

She  was  gone  before  he  could  speak  or  move. 

Elizabeth  was  alone  in  her  chamber.  The 
moon  had  been  shut  out  —  the  lamp  lighted. 
The  commonplace  aspect  of  the  spot  seemed  to 
bring  her  back  from  the  world  whither  she  had 
wandered  down  into  the  finite  again. 

She  was  on  her  knees  by  the  table.  The  open 
Bible  lay  before  her.  As  if  some  unseen  agency 
guided  her  hand,  she  turned  the  very  pages  that 
held  such  counsels  as  might  befit  the  strait 
wherein  she  found  herself. 

It  was  an  altered  face  now  which  bent  above 
the  sacred  volume  ;  out  of  it  looked  a  soul  that 
the  angels  must  have  pitied  and  pleaded  for. 

Up  through  the  stillness  went  a  low  sob,  which 
bore  a  breaking  heart  on  its  tone,  and  Elizabeth, 
groveling  on  the  floor,  tugged  at  her  breast  in 
blind  agony,  as  if  to  tear  out  the  crushed  heart 
which  murmured  so. 

The  spasm  passed.  Tears  came  —  prayers ; 
but  the  angels  must  hare  guarded  her  still,  or 
she  could  not  have  escaped  with  both  life  and 
reason  from  that  awful  night. 

It  was  almost  daylight  when  Elizabeth  sat  at 
her  table  with  the  letter  to  Launce  complete  un- 
der her  hand.  There  were  no  tears  now,  no 
struggles — they  belonged  to  the  life  that  had 
died  this  night. 

I  have  told  you  all  briefly.  You  will  ask  me 
what  helped  her?  what  gave  strength  for  the  sac- 
rifice ?  Neither  human  reason  nor  a  conviction 
of  right  or  wrong ;  only  faith  in  God  and  help 
from  the  Saviour,  whom  every  one  of  us,  at  some 
crisis  of  existence,  has  been  tempted  "to  crucify 
anew." 


This  was  the  close  of  her  letter  : 

"  If  I  obtained  my  freedom  only  to  marry  one 
I  love,  how  would  my  sin  be  less  than  that  man's  ? 
I  should  only  be  trying  to  give  to  my  acts  a  law- 
ful covering  which  might  show  fair  to  the  world 
and  hide  my  guilt. 

"  I  have  said  that  I  can  not  argue  upon  this 
point.  I  do  not  even  say  that,  to  those  who  can 
believe,  divorce  may  not  be  pardonable  in  the 
sight  of  God  as  it  is  in  the  eyes  of  many  good, 
just  men  and  women.  For  myself,  I  can  only 
cling  to  the  one  way  open  to  me.  Life  is  forever, 
the  suspense  here  a  brief  one.  I  can  not  cloud  the 
happiness  which  may  be  ours  in  some  existence 
our  spirits  shall  reach  at  length.  I  think  to 
save  your  soul  I  could  give  my  own — oh,  I  know 
I  could  !  I  can  not  lose  my  soul  and  yours.  I 
must  go. 

"  I  am  calm,  calmer  than  I  have  been  in  years. 
Another  man  would  upbraid — think  harshly  of 
me — not  you.  Oh,  Launce,  you  know  it  is  right 
— the  one  way !  Somewhere  in  eternity  Christ 
himself  will  tell  us  why  it  had  to  be." 

In  the  gray  of  the  early  morning  Janet  Crau- 
ford  was  awakened  by  a  cold  hand  laid  upon  her 
arm,  and  a  voice  like  that  of  the  dead  crying — 

. ' '  Wake  up,  wake  up  ! " 

There  Elizabeth  stood,  prepared  for  a  journey. 
It  needed  but  a  few  words  to  tell  her  story. 

"I  am  going  away  at  once.  He  will  obey 
me — he  will  not  stay  here.  When  he  is  gone,  I 
shall  come  back.  Try  to  love  me  a  little.  Help 
me  to  reach  toward  the  light.  Aunt  Janet, 
Aunt  Janet !  Oh,  my  God,  my  God  !" 

Then  a  brief  silence,  then  her  voice  again — 

"  '  Out  of  the  deep  have  I  called  unto  thee, 
Lord!  0  Lord,  hear  my  voice.'  " 

It  was  the  cry  of  her  breaking  heart  going  up 
to  God  out  of  the  darkness. 

Then  Aunt  Janet  was  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

KO    HOPE. 

IT  was  Mr.  Carstoe  who  received  the  letter 
Elizabeth  had  written  to  Launce.  The  old 
gentleman  had  breakfasted  alone  this  morning 
— Cromlin  did  not  appear.  Mr.  Carstoe  was 
standing  on  the  porch,  smoking  a  matutinal  pipe 
before  setting  out  for  the  mine.  His  horse  had 
come  up — Cromlin  insisted  on  life  being  made 
easy  and  comfortable  in  every  way  to  the  good 
man. 

But  these  last  days  had  been  full  of  unrest  to 
Mr.  Carstoe.  Like  most  reticent  people,  he  was 
observant  of  the  persons  dear  to  him ;  and  old 
Miss  Crauford,  with  all  her  shrewdness,  had  been 
less  quick  than  he  to  discern  the  secret  which  so 
long  remained  unsuspected  by  Launce  and  Eliza- 
beth themselves. 


184 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


Like  many  of  our  generation,  even  among  the 
good  and  wise,  Mr.Carstoe  believed  in  the  justice 
of  divorce  on  the  grounds  permitted  in  the  Bi- 
ble ;  believed,  too,  that  the  sentence  pronounced 
upon  the  guilty  husband  or  wife  implied  a  per- 
mission to  the  offended  one  to  form  new  ties. 

He  had  known  persons  who  had  done  this — 
men  and  women  whom  he  liked  and  honored  ; 
and  had  never  disapproved  or  even  thought 
much  about  the  matter.  Yet  when  his  mind 
suggested  the  possibility  that  Elizabeth  Crau- 
ford  might  thus  act,  he  was  filled  with  pain  and 
regret.  In  his  estimation  she  ranked  so  far 
above  ordinary  humanity  that  a  freedom  of 
action  which  he  would  have  considered  justifi- 
able in  another  seemed  unworthy  her.  But  it 
was  hard — he  said  this  over  and  over  to  himself, 
with  a  tender  pity  for  both  Ltiunce  and  her.  It 
seemed  a  horrible  thing  that  the  sin  of  a  bad 
man  should  wreck  two  lives  still  in  the  freshness 
of  youth  and  vigor.  Vaughan's  crime  had  so 
completely  cast  him  out  of  all  possibility  of  con- 
tact with  Elizabeth's  existence,  as  if  the  gulf 
that  yawned  between  them  were  the  black  eter- 
nal sweep  beyond  purgatory  and  heaven.  If  he 
were  to  repent — to  atone  so  far  as  in  him  lay — 
Elizabeth  could  never  be  his  wife  again.  Even 
if  his  cruelty  had  not  tired  her  heart  out  before 
that  crowning  guilt  separated  them,  the  guilt 
would  remain  the  same  impassable  barrier.  If 
she  had  loved  him  still,  she  could  not  have  gone 
back,  as  she  valued  her  soul's  safety,  as  she  be- 
lieved in  the  teachings  of  her  religious  faith,  save 
as  a  sister,  to  guide  him,  help  him,  hold  him  up. 

But  the  man  had  not  repented.  There  was 
no  hope,  humanly  speaking,  that  he  ever  would 
wish  to  turn  from  the  slough  and  the  mire  ;  and 
she  did  not  love  him.  In  her  girlish  purity,  ig- 
norance even,  she  had  been  attracted  by  an  ideal 
to  which  she  gave  this  man's  semblance — noth- 
ing more.  Mr.  Carstoe  understood  the  whole 
history  as  well  as  if  it  had  been  put  in  words. 
Had  Darrell  Vaughan  not  broken  the  bond  which 
bound  them,  Elizabeth  would  hare  struggled  on 
to  the  end  of  life  with  patience  and  resignation, 
her  heart  so  crushed  and  shut  in  under  its  heavy 
load  that  the  possibility  of  happiness  with  another 
would  never  have  crossed  her  soul.  A  thought, 
a  dream,  which  would  then  have  been  wrong, 
would  never  for  an  instant  have  shadowed  the 
whiteness  of  her  spirit.  She  was  incapable  even 
of  feeling  the  temptation  which — God  help  them ! 
— has  come  close  to  more  than  one  wretched 
husband  or  wife,  sunk  in  the  most  horrible  soli- 
tude—that of  a  marriage  which  possesses  neither 
affection  nor  sympathy. 

But  she  was  free— free  in  the  eyes  of  God  and 
man,  Mr.  Carstoe  considered.  She  had  no  hus- 
band. He  was  gone,  lost — swallowed  up  in  a 
hell  black  as  ever  Calvinistic  doctrine  devised 
for  the  world  beyond  this.  She  had  a  right  to 
call  upon  the  law  to  cancel  the  shattered  bond. 


Had  physical  death  overtaken  Vaughan,  the  law 
would  have  commanded  her  to  let  it  certify  there- 
to before  his  burial.  She  had  a  right  now  to 
command  the  law  to  give  witness  to  his  moral 
death.  She  was  a  widow ;  no  more  doubt  of 
her  privilege  to  marry  again,  if  she  so  willed, 
than  in  the  case  of  any  other  widow. 

Yet,  after  Mr.  Carstoe  had  gone  over  and  over 
the  whole  round  of  argument— acknowledging 
its  justice,  perfectly  convinced  of  its  utility — the 
pain  at  his  heart  remained  when  he  thought  of 
Elizabeth  thus  acting.  She  was  like  a  haloed 
martyr,  a  saint — something  fairly  superhuman 
in  his  eyes.  He  could  not  bear  to  have  the  spir- 
itual height  whereon  she  stood  troubled  by  a  sin- 
gle earthly  shadow. 

So,  as  he  lingered  this  morning,  absently 
watching  the  beautiful  landscape,  and  musing 
upon  these  matters,  old  Thomas  came  up  the 
garden  walk,  and  gave  him  a  letter. 

Carstoe  asked  after  Miss  Cranford  and  her 
niece.  He  never  uttered  the  other  name  which 
still  clung  to  her  if  he  could  avoid  it. 

Miss  Janet  was  well,  Thomas  said.  Miss 
Elizabeth  had  set  off  on  her  journey  by  the  earlv 
train.  Thomas  hoped  she  would  riot  stay  long 
with  her  old  governess,  whom  she  had  gone  to 
visit,  for  the  household  needed  her  sorely,  and 
Miss  Janet  most  of  all. 

Not  a  question  did  Mr.  Carstoe  ask ;  in  no 
way  did  he  betray  that  this  departure  was  a  sur- 
prise. His  heart  gave  one  mighty  bound  as  he 
turned  in-doors.  He  comprehended  what  her 
going  meant.  In  another  instant  he  could  feel 
only  pity  for  her  and  Launce.  He  understood 
Gremlin's  restlessness  during  these  past  days. 
Every  thing  was  clear.  He  knew  that  Elizabeth 
had  made  her  decision — had  won  her  martyr's 
palm.  ''Whoso  loseth  his  life  for  my  sake  shall 
find  it  again." 

Still  the  old  man  could  have  wept  from  sym- 
pathy and  tenderness.  It  was  so  hard — so  hard ! 
They  were  both  young  still,  and  they  deserved 
happiness.  Then,  inconsistent  as  humanity  al- 
ways is,  his  loving  heart  cried  out  that  it  could 
not  be  right ;  God  could  not  desire  such  sacri- 
fice. But  Elizabeth's  face  rose  before  him  in  its 
patient  beauty,  and  the  yearning  and  rebellion 
died. 

He  opened  the  envelope.  It  contained  a  sealed 
letter,  and  a  few  lines  addressed  to  himself. 

"Give  him  this,"  Elizabeth  wrote,  "and  oh, 
comfort  him,  dear  friend ;  he  will  need  it.  I 
have  no  necessity  to  explain  to  you ;  but  you 
will  help  him,  I  know  you  will." 

If  ever  a  human  being  sent  his  whole  soul  out 
in  prayer  for  those  dear,  it  was  Sheldon  Carstoe, 
as  he  stood  in  the  darkened  parlor  holding  those 
papers  in  his  hand. 

He  bade  a  sen-ant  take  the  letter  to  Cromlin's 

room,  and  went   away.      His   innate  delicacy 

!  taught  him  that  this  was  no  time  to  intrude — 


MB.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


the  first  agony  must  be  borne  without  mortal 
aid. 

It  was  dusk  when  he  returned  to  the  house. 
Mrs.  Clement, his  housekeeper, informed  him  that 
Mr.  Cromlin  had  just  come  in  and  was  up  in 
his  room.  He  had  been  out  all  day,  she  said. 
She  was  afraid  he  had  walked  too  much,  for  he 
looked  very  pale  and  tired. 

Mr.  Carstoe  mounted  the  stairs,  knocked  soft- 
ly at  Cromlin's  door,  and  was  bidden  to  enter. 

Launce  sat  by  a  table,  his  face  buried  in  his 
hands.  He  raised  his  head  as  Mr.  Carstoe  ap- 
peared, and  said,  with  a  ghost  of  his  pleasant 
smile — 

"She  has  told  you — she  says  you  will  help 
me,  and  I  must  let  you  try,  for  it  is  all  I  can  do 
to  prove  that  her  every  wish  is  my  law." 

A  very  foolish  old  man  was  Sheldon  Carstoe, 
when  one  remembers  that  he  had  lived  fifty-five 
years  in  this  most  realistic  of  centuries.  He 
went  up  to  Launce,  laid  both  hands  on  his  friend's 
shoulders,  and  the  great  tears  streamed  down 
his  withered  cheeks. 

"I  can't  feel  it,  I  can't  be  satisfied!"  Launce 
exclaimed.  "But  I  don't  blame  her  now.  I 
have  been  fighting  all  day  with  a  legion  of  dev- 
ils, but  I  don't  blame  her  now." 

Mr.  Carstoe  patted  his  arm,  and  fondled  his 
cold  hands  as  if  he  had  been  a  child,  this  white, 
stern-faced  man,  with  the  impress  of  an  unutter- 
able agony  on  every  lineament. 

"I  know  she  is  right," he  continued,  "but  I 
can't  feel  it.  I  think  if  I  live  to  be  a  hundred  I 
shall  never  feel  it ;  but  all  the  same  she  is  right. 
You  must  tell  her  to  come  back — she  will  not 
find  me  here ;  we  shall  never  meet  again  in  this 
world — oh,  Carstoe,  Carstoe  1" 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

TOGETHER. 

TEX  days  had  passed.  It  was  a  lovely  June 
afternoon. 

Little  Meg  sat  on  the  grass  beneath  the  wal- 
nut-trees in  front  of  the  pretty  cottage  where  she 
and  Aunt  Jean  lived. 

Below  the  house  the  tall  chimneys  of  Tangle- 
wood  rose  among  the  trees ;  beyond  spread  the 
sweep  of  the  valley.  Above  the  dwelling  the 
road  curved  suddenly  down  toward  the  river ; 
great  cliffs  towered  frowning  and  dark,  crowding 
themselves  almost  to  the  water's  edge. 

It  was  a  fair,  peaceful  spot,  and  in  her  childish 
fashion  Meg  fully  appreciated  its  beauty.  The 
country  air  had  already  done  her  much  good ; 
she  looked  fresher,  her  color  was  brighter,  and 
she  was  growing  tall. 

She  had  seated  her  dolls  on  moss  thrones  at 
the  root  of  one  of  the  great  walnuts,  put  their 
table  and  tea-things  before  them,  and  they  were 


supposed  to  be  enjoying  a  ceremonious  feast; 
and  Meg  was  certain  they  understood  the  whole 
matter  just  as  well  as  herself.  She  talked  to 
them,  and  confided  her  small  secrets,  and  they 
talked— yas,  indeed,  and  laughed  too!  Com- 
monplace grown-up  mortals  might  perhaps  have 
watched  the  waxen  ladies  carefully  and  caught 
no  word  or  smile ;  but  Meg  was  not  so  stupid : 
she  understood  their  language  without  difficulty. 

The  birds  sang;  the  butterflies  flitted  past-, 
the  rabbits  scuttled  away  through  the  grass ;  the 
bees  hummed  by ;  the  white  clouds  cast  long 
shadows  over  the  lawn ;  the  river  murmured 
softly — the  whole  made  up  an  enchanted  scene 
of  whose  marvels  Meg  never  wearied. 

She  left  the  queens  at  their  tea,  and  wandered 
off  down  the  winding  path,  to  watch  a  troop  of 
little  yellow  butterflies  that  were  circling  about 
in  the  sun,  looking  like  flecks  of  sunlight  them- 
selves. Meg,  with  her  head  full  of  a  fairy  story 
Elizabeth  had  told  her,  was  inclined  to  believe 
the  winged  creatures  the  very  knot  of  elves 
which,  according  to  Elizabeth's  legend,  trans- 
formed themselves  into  the  bright-hued  insects 
during  the  hours  when  mortals  are  awake  and 
watchful. 

But  the  butterflies  floated  away  on  a  sudden 
breeze  that  sighed  down  from  the  mountains, 
fragrant  with  the  odor  of  pine-trees  and  wood- 
flowers,  and  Meg  was  next  attracted  by  a  great 
sweet-briar  which  grew  close  to  the  gate,  and 
had  burst  into  full  blossom  since  the  previous 
day. 

While  she  stood  there,  looking  out  from  the 
thicket  of  flowers,  a  woman  came  along  the  road 
which  led  from  the  village,  past  Tanglewood  and 
the  cottage,  and  curved  here  toward  the  river, 
following  the  course  of  the  stream  for  miles  and 
miles  above  the  valley. 

Meg  made  a  lovely  little  picture  framed  among 
the  shining  green  leaves  and  pink  blossoms. 
IShe  was  singing,  in  her  clear,  childish  voice,  just 
from  sheer  happiness,  a  melody  that  had  no  rule 
or  words,  yet  was  musical  and  sweet— a  chant 
such  as  one  often  hears  from  childish  lips,  making 
one  marvel  if  it  be  not  a  memory  of  the  strains 
the  angels  used  to  sing  to  them  in  some  brighter 
world  than  this  to  which  their  tiny  feet  have 
strayed. 

The  woman  caught  sight  of  Meg  standing 
there,  and  paused.  She  was  thin,  wasted,  and 
worn,  but  there  were  traces  of  wonderful  beauty 
in  her  face  still.  She  stood  and  watched  the 
child,  and  a  great  eagerness  and  longing  bright- 
ened the  sullen  gloom  of  her  eyes.  A  kind  of 
awe,  almost  a  fear,  struck  her  too,  one  would 
have  said ;  for  she  made  a  movement  forward, 
then  checked  herself,  and  sat  down  upon  the 
grass,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands— not  weep- 
ing, though  her  whole  frame  shook  with  the  con- 
vulsive sobs  that  heaved  her  bosom. 

Meg  looked  out,  and  saw  her  sitting  there 


186 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


among  the  daisies.  She  had  been  too  kindly 
treated  always  to  know  any  tiling  about  shyness. 
She  pushed  open  the  gate,  which  happened  to  be 
unlatched,  and  went  close  to  the  woman,  who 
had  not  noticed  her  approach.  "Don't  cry," 
she  said,  softly ;  "  don't  cry." 

The  woman  raised  her  head — the  eager,  yearn- 
ing expression  swept  over  her  face  again — the 
look  of  awe,  of  dread,  appeared  too.  She  pressed 
her  hand  against  her  heart.  Her  breath  came 
and  went  in  gasps.  Her  pallor  took  a  livid,  bluish 
tint,  and  she  leaned  heavily  against  the  trunk  of 
a  sycamore  by  which  she  had  seated  herself. 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  she  managed  to  say. 
"I'll  be  better  in  a  minute." 

She  was  better  before  Meg  had  time  really  to 
become  alarmed. 

"Don't  you  want  something?"  the  child  ask- 
ed, with  the  practical  common-sense  which  was 
already  one  of  her  strong  characteristics.  "I 
could  call  Aunt  Jean,  or  fetch  you  some  water." 

The  woman  caught  her  dress,  and  held  it  fast. 

"Don't  call  any  body,"  she  said;  "I'm  bet- 
ter now." 

"  You  might  go  into  the  house  and  rest,"  Meg 
suggested. 

"  No ;  I  like  to  sit  here.  Will  you  sit  down 
too  ?"  Her  voice  had  grown  veiy  soft  and  sweet. 
As  Meg  looked  at  her  again  she  wondered  why 
at  first  she  was  a  little  startled  by  the  stranger's 
eyes ;  they  did  not  flash  and  bum  now — they  were 
misty  and  sad. 

Meg  sat  by  her,  quite  ready  to  be  communi- 
cative, and  entertain  the  lady  to  the  best  of  her 
ability.  She  was  dressed  in  black,  Meg's  quick 
glance  noticed — Aunt  Jean  had  told  her  that 
was  a  sign  people  had  lost  friends. 

"  Maybe  you  had  a  little  girl  once,"  said  Meg, 
putting  her  thought  into  words  at  once,  and  point- 
ing to  the  stranger's  gown.  The  child  could  not 
have  explained  her  fancy  to  herself;  but  she 
comprehended,  without  understanding,  that  the 
eager,  yearning  expression  of  the  pale  face  bent 
upon  her  spoke  the  language,  of  pain  and  regret. 

The  woman  turned  away  her  head  for  an  in- 
stant. 

"Yes,  I  had,"  she  answered. 

"  And  you've  lost  her  ?'' 

"  Yes — I've  lost  her ;  yes." 

"  I'm,  so  sorry,"  said  Meg ;   "  so  sorry." 

She  put  out  her  little  hand,  and  slipped  it  into 
the  stranger's.  The  woman  let  the  dainty  fin- 
gers lie  on  her  palm,  looking  down  at  them  with 
a  sort  of  wistful  wonder. 

"You're  sorry,"  she  muttered;  "you're  sor- 
ry!'' Then  aloud — "Will  you  tell  me  your 
name?" 

"Oh,  I'm  little  Meg,  and  I  live  with  Aunt 
Jean  in  the  cottage,  and  Elizabeth  lives  in  the 
great  house  yonder." 

"Who  is  Elizabeth?"  asked  the  woman. 

"  Oh,  she's  so  beautiful— I  love  her  so !"  cried 


Meg.  "  She's  got  another  name — I  can't  think 
— she  said  I  might  call  her  Elizabeth.  It  was 
she  brought  us  here  to  this  place  to  live — it's  a 
nice  place^ isn't  it?" 

"  Yes,  very  nice,"  the  woman  answered,  ab- 
sently. "  And — and  you  haven't  any  mother  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Meg;  "  but  I've  always  had  Aunt 
Jean.  Don't  you  think  you'd  better  go  into  the 
house,  and  see  Aunt  Jean  ?" 

"No;  I  like  to  sit  here.  I  am  going  away 
presently." 

"Do  you  live  near?"  Meg  asked. 

The  stranger  shook  her  head. 

"That's  why  I've  never  seen  you,"  said  Meg. 
"But  I  really  think  you'd  better  go  and  see 
Aunt  Jean — you  don't  look  well.  She's  got  all 
sorts  of  things  to  take.  I  help  her  gather  the 
roots,  and  she  always  knows  just  what  to  do  for 
people." 

"  She  couldn't  do  any  thing  for  me,"  sighed 
the  woman ;  "  I'm  past  help — past  help." 

Meg  looked  at  her,  troubled  more  by  the  tone 
than  the  words. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said  again,  with  her  beau- 
tiful childish  eyes  full  of  pity.  "  Are  yon  going 
back  to  your  home — is  it  far?" 

"  My  home  ?"  said  the  woman.  "  Oh,  yes — 
very  far ;  I'm  going  toward  it,  though,  fast 
enough,"  she  added,  with  a  bitter  laugh. 

"I'm  afraid  you  ain't  happy,"  sighed  Meg. 
"I  wish  Elizabeth  was  here." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  any  onp  but  you,"  re- 
plied the  woman. 

"  I  wish  I  had  my  white  frock  on ;  I've  a  beau- 
tiful one  Elizabeth  gave  me  for  Sundays,"  said 
Meg ;  "  but  it's  only  Wednesday  now." 

"You're  very  fond  of  that  Elizabeth,"  re- 
turned the  woman,  with  a  kind  of  irritation  in 
her  voice. 

"  Oh  my,  yes  ;  and  so  is  Aunt  Jean ;  she's  so 
good.  But  she's  not  home  now ;  she's  gone  away 
for  a  while,  and  there's  nobody  but  Miss  Crau- 
ford.  I'm  afraid  of  her. " 

"Who— what  was  that  name?"  asked  the 
woman,  quickly.  "Is  Elizabeth's  name  Crau- 
ford  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  something  more ;  she's  married, 
only  I  don't  know  where  her  husband  is." 

The  stranger  pressed  her  hand  hard  upon  her 
heart  again,  and  fought  against  the  new  spasm 
which  seized  her. 

"  You'd  better  come  and  see  Aunt  Jean.  How 
pale  you  look  again !"  Meg  said,  watching  her. 

The  woman  shook  her  head.  She  could  speak 
presently. 

"I  can't,  child ;  I  can't.  I  am  going  away.  I 
want  to  take  the  next  train,  and  it  leaves  soon." 

"Yes,  I  know  ;  it's  the  six  o'clock — oh,  what 
is  the  word  ? — Express !"  cried  Meg,  with  pride. 
"  Mr.  Carstoe  told  me  the  name." 

"Great  God!"  exclaimed  the  woman.  "Is 
Mr.  Carstoe  here  too  ?" 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


187 


"Oh,tobe  sure, "said Meg;  "andMr. Lannce 
was  here,  but  he's  gone.  I  like  him,  but  I  like 
Mr.  Carstoe  too ;  he  took  me  up  to  the  mine  in 
his  wagon." 

"  They're  all  good  to  you,  and  you  love  them 
all?"  returned  the  woman.  "You'll  not  miss 
me." 

"Oh,  I'd  like  to  have  you  stay,  and  so  would 
Aunt  Jean,  I  know,"  said  Meg.  "But  perhaps 
you'll  come  back  again  soon  ?" 

"I  don't  know;  I've  something  to  do ;  I  must 
go  and  do  it,"  said  the  woman,  looking  away 
from  Meg,  while  the  sombre  fire  blazed  in  her 
eyes  again.  "I  must  do  it,  and  I  will." 

Meg  did  not  hear  the  words ;  but  the  voice 
was  so  fierce,  low  as  she  spoke,  that  the  child 
shrank  back. 

"Oh,  don't  be  afraid  of  me  —  don't!"  cried 
the  woman,  passionately,  sinking  on  her  knees. 

"  No,  I  won't ;  I'm  not,"  faltered  the  little 
girl. 

"It's  no  use  to  stay ;  I've  seen  her.  I  want- 
ed to  see  her,"  said  the  woman,  under  her  breath, 
with  her  great  eyes  intently  studying  Meg's  feat- 
ures. "There's  no  curse  on  her;  maybe  it'll 
not  fall  if  I  keep  away.  I'd  like  to  come  back 
and  die  here — just  here." 
.  She  sat  down  on  the  ground,  and  buried  her 
head  in  her  hands,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro. 
Meg  touched  her  shoulder. 

"You'd  better  let  me  call  Aunt  Jean,"  she 
said. 

The  woman  lifted  her  white  face. 

"  I  wish  sometimes  you'd  think  of  me,  and  say 
'  Poor  Marguerite ' — will  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"Every  night  when  I  say  my  prayers,"  said 
Meg. 

The  woman  shuddered,  and  rose  slowly  from 
the  ground. 

' '  Good-bye,  now,  "she  said.  ' '  I'd  like  to  kiss 
you ;  it  couldn't  do  you  any  hurt." 

"  Oh,  kiss  me,  please,"  sobbed  Meg ;  "  I'm  so 
sorry  for  you!" 
.    " Don't  be  sorry ;  don't  mind." 

She  stooped,  pressed  the  child  to  her  in  a  pas- 
sionate embrace,  then  hurried  away,  looking  back 
once  as  she  went  down  the  road.  On  she  walked, 
round  the  curve,  past  the  cottage,  the  woodlands, 
and  close  to  the  gates  of  Tanglewood. 

Elizabeth,  who  had  this  morning  returned, 
came  out  of  the  grounds,  and  took  the  road  toward 
the  cottage.  The  woman  looked  hard  after  her, 
half  paused,  and  then  hastened  on. 

"  Who  is  that  lady  ?"  she  asked  a  man  who 
had  stopped  his  cart  to  light  a  pipe. 

"That's  Mrs.Vaughan,"  said  he. 

"Who?" 

"  Mrs.  Darrell  Vaughan ;  old  Miss  Crauford's 
niece." 

The  woman  groaned  aloud,  and  hurried  on. 
The  man  puffed  meditatively  at  his  pipe,  and 
glanced  after  her. 


"Wrong  in  the  head;  that's  what  ails  her," 
he  said  to  himself:  chirruped  to  his  horse,  and 
went  his  way  also. 

Elizabeth  and  Aunt  Jean  found  Meg  still  seat- 
ed near  the  gate ;  she  was  weeping  softly,  and 
saying — 

"  Poor  Marguerite !  poor  Marguerite !" 

A  few  days  after,  Mr.  Carstoe  came  to  Tan- 
glewood late  one  evening  with  a  telegram  he  had 
just  received  from  Launce  Cromlin : 

'•'•Bring  Mrs.  Vaughan  to  town.  Must  be  here 
to-morrow.  Darrell  needs  her." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 
NINA'S  GHOST. 

Ir  was  twilight.  Nathalie  La  Tour  stood  at 
the  window  and  watched  Darrell  Vaughan  drive 
away  from  her  house.  He  was  obliged  to  go  to 
Albany — would  return  the  next  day.  Early  in 
the  following  week  Nathalie  was  to  sail  for  Eu- 
rope— he  would  join  her  there. 

It  was  a  warm  evening,  and  the  window  was 
open.  Nathalie  still  stood  there  after  the  car- 
riage disappeared.  A  woman  who  had  been 
walking  up  and  down  the  pavement  during  the 
whole  time  of  Vaughan's  visit  stopped  suddenly 
under  the  casement — put  up  her  veil,  and  looked 
full  at  Nathalie. 

Nathalie  saw  her,  and  shrank  back  in  a  terror 
that  had  no  name.  In  spite  of  the  difference  in 
years,  it  was  her  mother's  face — the  same  deadly 
pallor,  the  same  hard,  reckless  mouth,  the  same 
sombre  fire  in  the  great  eyes. 

"  Open  the  door,"  said  the  woman ;  "  open  the 
door,  Madame  La  Tour ;  I  want  to  speak  wish 
yon,  and  I  will!" 

Nathalie  could  no  more  refuse  than  if  her 
mother's  ghost  had  halted  there  demanding  ad- 
mittance. She  dragged  herself  across  the  hall, 
opened  the  outer  door — the  woman  was  on  the 
steps.  She  entered  quickly,  closed  the  door  be- 
hind her,  and  motioned  Nathalie  back  into. the 
parlor. 

They  stood  there  face  to  face — the  wom- 
an wrapped  in  her  black  garments,  Nathalie 
dressed  in  white,  flowers  in  her  hair,  pearls  on 
her  neck  and  arms.  She  could  not  speak — the 
eyes  that  looked  into  hers  seemed  turning  her  to 
stone. 

"  Young  and  handsome,"  said  the  woman  slow- 
ly; "covered  with  jewels  and  flowers;  but  you're 
going  the  same  road.  Look  at  me!  I'm  the 
ghost  of  what  such  women  as  you  become — look 
at  me !" 

"  Who  are  you  ?  what  do  you  want  ?"  moaned 
Nathalie,  struggling  against  the  conviction  which 
smote  at  her  heart. 

"I  want  to  see  Darrell  Vaughan's  mistress — 
his  last  love  :  I'm  looking  at  her  now." 


188 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


"It  is  false  !"  exclaimed  Nathalie,  in  sudden 
anger. 

"Hush!"  said  the  woman.  "I  know  all 
about  you ;  I  know  how  you  have  paltered  with 
your  soul.  But  you're  going  to  Europe  to  meet 
him  ;  you  have  yielded  at  last. " 

Nathalie  sank  into  a  chair,  putting  tip  her 
hands,  trying  to  close  her  eyes ;  she  could  only 
stave  in  a  fascinated  horror  at  the  face  before 
her. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  your  name  ?"  she  asked,  in 
a  frightened  voice. 

"I  told  you  I  was  a  ghost — ghosts  don't  have 
names,"  returned  the  woman. 

"  Man  Dieu!  mon  Dieu!"  moaned  Nathalie. 

"Oh,  Lord,  you're  French,"  exclaimed  the 
other.  ' '  What  can  one  expect  of  you  ?  French ! 
That's  what  my  mother  was  who  sent  me  off — 
sold  me — got  rid  of  me." 

"  Who  was  she? — what  was  her  name?"  de- 
manded Nathalie. 

"  Oh,  let  her  alone,"  cried  the  woman,  impa- 
tiently. "I  don't  remember  her." 

"  You  must  tell  me.    Was  it  Nina?" 

The  woman  nodded. 

"  Nina  de  Favolles,"  she  said.  "  How  did  you 
know  ?" 

' '  She  was  my  mother  too !  Marguerite — Mar- 
guerite— I  am  your  sister ! "  shrieked  Nathalie. 

She  fell  on  her  knees,  shivering  and  sobbing. 
The  woman  showed  no  emotion — not  even  sur- 
prise. 

"Two  days  ago,"  she  said,  "I  saw  another 
sister  of  mine ;  I'm  rich  in  relations  all  of  a  sud- 
den." 

"  Do  you  mean  Elizabeth  ?"  groaned  Nathalie. 

"Yes,  Elizabeth.  Stop  crying — get  up ;  I  hate 
such  a  noise." 

Nathalie  managed  to  rise  and  get  to  a  sofa 
near. 

"You  saw  Elizabeth?"  she  asked. 

"Didn't  I  say  so?  My  sister  —  Crauford's 
daughter  —  Darrell  Vaughan's  wife,"  returned 
the  other. 

Nathalie  shrieked  again. 

"What  did  you  say — what  ?" 

"  Darrell  Vaughan's  wife.  What  do  you  make 
a  racket  about  that  for  ?" 

"Who  said  so? — who  told  you?" 

"Lord!"  exclaimed  her  sister,  impatiently, 
paying  no  attention  to  Nathalie's  face  and  voice 
of  horror,  "  what  a  row  you  do  make  about  ev- 
ery thing — you're  so  French." 

"Elizabeth — Vaughan's  wife!"  repeated  Na- 
thalie, in  a  strangled  tone. 

"  Any  body  would  suppose  you  had  made  a 
discovery,"  retorted  the  other. 

"I  never  knew — never — 0  mon  Dieu !  0  mon 
Dieu!  It  can't  be  —  I  don't  believe  it.  Who 
said  so  ?" 

"  Here's  a  case !"  said  the  woman,  with  a  little 
laugh.  "  Never  knew  ?'' 


"  No.  no !    I  tell  you  it  can't  te. 

"  Darrell  Vaughan's  wife,  I  say,"  repeated  she. 
"  They  told  me  out  there  where  she  lives ;  no 
mistake  whatever  —  Crauford's  daughter,  Dar- 
rell's  wife. " 

"0  mon  Dieu!  mon  Dieu!"  groaned  Nathalie 
again. 

She  fell  back  half  fainting  ;  hysterics  followed ; 
but  her  companion  stood  looking  on  with  a  cer- 
tain cold  wonder  in  her  face,  not  offering  the 
least  assistance. 

"You  needn't  cry  now,"  she  said  at  length,  as 
Nathalie's  sobs  began  to  lessen  ;  "  it's  rather  late 
for  that." 

"  I  tell  you  I  never  knew !"  moaned -Nathalie. 
' '  Years  ago  she  was  my  friend,  and  I  loved  her 
so — oh,  Elizabeth !" 

"Oh,  Nina  de  Favolles'  daughter  —  Nina's 
daughter!"  exclaimed  the  woman,  with  another 
low,  dreadful  laugh. 

"  Don't ! — stop !"  cried  Nathalie.  "  Bring  me 
some  water.  I'm  choking — I  shall  die!" 

' '  Not  a  bit  of  it — dying's  not  so  easy, "  was 
the  answer.  "  I'll  find  you  some  water  though, 
for  I  want  you  to  get  your  senses  back.  Oh, 
here's  some  wine  on  the  table ;  drink  this. " 

Vaughan  had  asked  for  wine,  and  it  had  been 
brought.  The  glass  held  to  her  lips  was  the  one 
from  which  he  had  drank.  Nathalie  pushed  it 
away,  a  sudden  wrath  springing  up  under  her 
terror  and  confusion  at  the  thought  of  him. 

"Never  waste  good  drink,"  said  Marguerite, 
as  the  wine  splashed  over  the  floor.  ' '  I  can't 
touch  it  myself — ten  drops  bring  on  the  spasms  : 
they're  not  like  hysterics,  I  can  tell  you. " 

"Water — give  me  some  water!"  cried  Natha- 
lie. 

She  drank  a  little,  had  a  recurrence  of  the  hys- 
terical sobs  and  suffocation,  Marguerite  standing 
by  as  unmoved  as  before. 

"  Sister  Elizabeth,"  she  said  at  last,  "Darrell 
Vaughan's  wife !  I  do  think  that  completes  the 
thing — and  you  didn't  know  ! " 

These  words  brought  a  hotter  flash  of  anger 
into  Nathalie's  heart,  and  restored  her  strength. 

"No;  he  deceived  me,  lied  to  me.  Oh,  the 
base  wretch !" 

"  Why,  of  course  he  did,"  came  the  contempt- 
uous reply  ;  "  what  else  would  he  do  ?" 

"Oh,  Marguerite,  Marguerite!" 

"Don't  you  call  me  that  —  I'm  Milady;  he 
gave  me  the  name." 

"Oh,  she  must  be  crazy,  she  must  be !"  moaned 
Nathalie,  unconsciously  thinking  aloud. 

"  No,"  said  Milady, perfectly  unmoved.  "  Some- 
how even  my  devils  seem  to  let  me  alone.  I 
came  to  see  what  you  were  like,  and  you're  my 
sister.  Now  I've  my  work  to  do ;  you  can  help, 
if  you  want  to." 

"  Help  in  what  ?  Oh,  I  never  hated  any  body 
before.  I  want  my  revenge,  my  revenge !"  gasped 
Nathalie  throngh  her  set  teeth. 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


189 


"Do  you?  Oh,  yes — you  love  him!  I  nei- 
ther love  nor  hate — I'm  a  ghost.  I  have  my 
work  to  do,  and  I  must  do  it." 

"  Oh,  I  can't  believe — I  can't !  Elizabeth  his 
wife — oh,  my  presentiment  that  she  laughed  at. 
No,  I  don't  believe  it !" 

"Well,"  said  Milady,  indifferently,  "I  don't 
see  that  it  matters  to  me  whether  yon  believe 
it  or  not.  I  suppose  I  may  as  well  go.  I 
don't  know  why  I  wanted  to  show  you  where 
your  road  ends  by  the  sight  of  such  as  me  ;  but 
I  did.  It  won't  do  any  good  —  you'll  keep 
on." 

She  made  a  movement  to  leave  the  room — 
Nathalie  caught  her  dress. 

"Don't  go — 111  not  let  you  go!"  she  cried. 
"  I  promised  our  mother — she  was  sorry ;  when 
she  came  to  die,  she  told  me — " 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  about  her,"  interrupted 
Milady.  "  Hell  must  be  a  largish  place — Nina 
and  I  sha'n't  interfere." 

"  She  repented — she  was  sorry,  I  tell  you ; 
don't  say  such  awful  things!"  returned  Natha- 
lie. 

The  expression  of  dull  surprise  came  back  to 
Milady's  face. 

"Why,  you're  afraid  of  it,"  she  said.  "Are 
you  hoping  to  get  out  of  the  business  by  a  death- 
bed repentance  too  ?" 

"  I'm  not  a  bad  woman !"  exclaimed  Nathalie, 
stamping  her  foot.  "  I  never  had  a  lover ;  oh, 
I  was  going  away  with  him — I  own  that." 

Milady  broke  in  with  another  laugh. 

"  You'll  go  yet,"  she  said.  "  I'll  wager  what 
you  like  he'll  make  you  believe  black's  white ; 
you'll  go." 

"  I'd  have  given  up  every  thing  for  him !"  cried 
Nathalie.  "But  he  has  deceived  me  :  he  knew 
how  I  loved  Elizabeth." 

"I  suppose  his  setting  me  on  the  road  to  hell 
doesn't  count,"  said  Milady,  calmly. 

"  You  didn't  say — you  didn't  tell  me — he — " 

"It's  such  an  old  story  now.  I  was  the  girl 
he  fooled  and  ruined ;  I'm  the  woman  he  shut  up 
in  prison  ;  and  I've  just  been  to  see  my  child — 
mine  and  his." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  go  crazy,  I  shall !" 

But  Milady  checked  the  hysterical  outburst  at 
once. 

"If  you  keep  that  up,  I'm  off,"  she  said,  "  and 
you'll  not  see  me  again.  I  can't  bear  a  noise ;  it 
hurts  me  here,"  and  she  laid  her  hand  on  her 
heart. 

"I  won't,  I  won't,"  whimpered  Nathalie,  mak- 
ing, in  this  terrible  crisis,  the  strongest  effort  at 
self-control  that  she  had  ever  done  in  her  whole 
life.  "I  hate  him;  oh,  how  I  do  hate  him!" 
she  exclaimed,  rushing  from  grief  and  horror 
into  a  passion  which  seemed  childish  and  weak 
beside  Milady's  stern  composure.  "What  did 
you  mean  about  work  and  my  helping  ?  He  shut 
you  up  in  prison.  Oh,  he  shall  suffer — " 


"  Stuff!"  interrupted  Milady.  "What  could 
I  do,  or  you  either,  against  this  rich,  respectable 
gentleman  ?  If  we  had  nothing  better  than  that 
to  go  upon,  you  might  whistle  for  your  revenge, 
as  you  call  it. "  Then  she  stopped  to  laugh  — 
that  dull,  cold  laugh,  which  still  had  something 
so  savage  in  it  that  Nathalie  trembled.  "  You 
wanting  revenge !  It  sounds  so  droll!  You're 
only  a  miserable,  weak  little  butterfly,  if  you  are 
Nina's  daughter  and  Milady's  sister." 

Neither  grief  nor  anger  nor  horror,  though 
Nathalie  was  shaken  to  the  very  soul  as  nothing 
but  her  mother's  death  had  ever  moved  her,  could 
prevent  her  feeling  the  sting  to  her  vanity  which 
those  words  gave. 

"You  know  nothing  about  me,"  she  said, 
proudly;  "  I  am  a  very  famous  woman.  I  have 
written  books — " 

"Oh,  yes,"  interrupted  Milady,  "I  know. 
When  I  first  saw  you,  the  night  before  last,  with 
Darrell  Vaughan ,  I  asked  about  you.  So  yon  had 
to  show  your  relationship  to  Nina  and  me  by  some 
sort  of  wickedness,  though  you're  too  childish  to 
half  understand. " 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean !  Don't  talk 
to  me  like  that,  Marguerite." 

"Don't  you  call  me  Marguerite  again,"  said 
her  sister,  with  a  look  in  her  eyes  which  made 
Nathalie's  blood  run  cold.  "Mean?  Nina  ra- 
ined all  the  men  she  could,  and  I  once  kept  a 
gambling-house !  But,  bad  as  we  were,  I  don't 
suppose  we  did  the  harm  you  have  by  your 
wicked  books ;  and  never  knew  they  were  wick- 
ed— you  ridiculous  moth !" 

"Oh,  that's  what  Monsieur  La  Tour  said,  and 
Elizabeth,"  shuddered  Nathalie.  "I  don't  be- 
lieve it ! — I  don't  believe  it !" 

"  Well,  well,"  returned  Milady,  wearily.  "It's 
of  no  consequence — a  little  wickedness  more  or 
less  in  the  world ;  and  probably  nobody  ever  read 
your  trash  after  all." 

Nathalie  would  have  expostulated  further,  but 
Milady  held  up  her  hand.  She  had  seated  her- 
self, and  was  gazing  straight  before  her,  thinking 
deeply.  She  looked  so  like  a  representation  of 
some  merciless,  passionless  Fate,  that  Nathalie 
was  more  afraid  of  her  than  ever,  and  shrank 
into  a  corner  of  the  sofa.  Her  eye  was  caught  by 
a  photograph  of  Vaughan  that  lay  on  the  table. 
First  she  sobbed  and  moaned  a  little  over  her 
broken  heart,  then  she  snatched  up  the  picture 
and  tore  it  into  fragments,  with  a  passion  which 
for  an  instant  gave  her  childish  face  a  painful 
resemblance  to  her  mother's,  and  the  stern,  fixed 
countenance  of  Milady,  who  paid  no  attention  to 
her  outburst. 

"  Don't  sit  there  like  that — don't  look  so ;  you 
frighten  me,"  cried  Nathalie.  "What  are  you 
thinking  about  ?" 

"Do  you  know  Launce .Cromlin, his  cousin?" 
asked  Milady. 

"  Yes— no,"  returned  Nathalie,  coloring.    She 


190 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


had  met  Launce  once  at  a  private  exhibition  of 
pictures  in  the  Academy,  and  he  had  declined  an 
introduction  to  her.  "  lie's  a  brute,"  she  added. 
"  He  was  very  rude  to  me.'' 

"  Wasn't  anxious  to  know  the  famous  book- 
writer  and  Darrell's  friend,"  sneered  Milady. 
"  Well,  it  is  he  who  must  help  in  the  work  too." 
Then  her  voice  changed.  "A  good  man! — a 
good  man  !  And  the  other,  Carstoe ;  why,  see- 
ing them  almost  made  me  think  there  might  be 
a  heaven,  and  a  God  in  it ;  I  can  believe  in  the 
other  place  easily  enough.  They  took  me  out 
of  prison.  Launce  Cromlin  shall  have  his  rights  ; 
yes,  he  shall.  When  is  the  other  man  coming 
back  ?" 

"  To-morrow  night."  She  began  to  cry  again, 
but  very  quietly ;  Milady's  eyes  kept  her  from 
giving  way  further.  "  Oh,  I  was  to  have  sailed 
on  Saturday  —  he  was  to  follow ;  and  to  think 
of  you  and  Elizabeth !  It's  too  dreadful — too 
dreadful !" 

"It  is  rather  a  mixing  np  of  family  affairs," 
said  Milady.  "  You  needn't  snivel  though.  From 
your  own  account,  you've  escaped." 

"I've  told  you  the  truth — indeed  I  have," 
pleaded  Nathalie,  humbly. 

"I  don't  doubt  it  —  you've  no  blood  in  your 
veins.  Maybe  you'd  be  a  better  woman  if  you 
were  worse." 

"  Oh,  how  hard  you  are  !"  moaned  Nathalie. 

' '  Hard  ?"  repeated  Milady.  ' '  I've  drank  gall 
and  fed  on  stones  for  a  good  many  years  now, 
ray  pretty  authoress !  Oh  well,  when  one  has 
been — loved  by  a  man,  and  had  a  mother  who 
repented — " 

"  She  did  repent,"  broke  in  Nathalie.  "  Oh, 
let  me  tell  you — I  promised  her  to  tell  if  I  ever 
found  you.  She  said  she'd  haunt  me  unless  I 
did." 

"She  won't  come  while  I'm  here,"  replied 
Milady,  grimly. 

"  You  were  with  rich  people.  She  was  poor 
jnst  then — " 

"You  don't  tell  it  right,"  said  Milady,  as  Na- 
thalie paused.  "  Nina  sent  me  to  a  foundling 
hospital.  Mrs.  Rivers  had  a  baby  born  dead. 
She'd  lost  so  many,  they  knew  she  would  die  if 
she  was  disappointed  then.  Mr.  Rivers  went  to 
the  hospital  and  got  me  — Nina's  cast-off  child. 
Till  I  was  seventeen  I  never  knew  I  was  not  their 
own — never  knew." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  Nathalie  said,  eagerly.  "  Mam- 
ma kept  track  of  yon — she  was  so  content  to 
know  you  were  happy,  rich.  Then,  after  all  those 
years,  she  heard  Mr.  Rivers  was  dead,  and  you 
had  quarreled  with  his  wife,  and  were  gone.  Oh, 
she  never  had  a  moment's  peace  after  that." 

"They  had  a  daughter  born  to  them  less  than 
two  years  after  they  took  me,"  said  Milady. 
"  But  he  loved  me — yes,  he  did ;  loved  me  bet- 
ter than  nil  his  silly  wife's  children,  for  she  had 
three.  How  she  hated  me !  I  wondered  why 


she  was  so  different  from  other  mothers ;  but  I 
had  him — I  didn't  care. " 

"  She  knew  you  weren't  her  child  ?" 

"Yes;  she  found  it  out — hunted  np  every 
clew — got  letters  that  fool  Nina  wrote  Mr.  Rivers 
about  me.  She  held  her  peace,  waiting  for  him 
to  die  ;  she  knew  he  couldn't  live  many  years. 
She  had  the  whole  story — Nina,  Crauford's  name. 
So  I  was  seventeen,  and  he  died.  He  never  knew 
how  she  hated  me ;  she  was  always  artful  as  the 
devil,  and  I  didn't  complain." 

"  Ah  man  Dieu  !"  sighed  Nathalie. 

"  Then  I  had  my  part  in  his  will — his  daugh- 
ter Marguerite.  She  flew  at  me  before  he  was  in 
his  grave;  told  me  who  I  was — that  I  should 
not  have  a  penny ;  told  the  whole  story  out  to 
any  body  that  would  listen.  That's  what  came 
to  me  when  I  was  seventeen." 

Nathalie  could  only  shiver  and  weep,  motion- 
ing her  to  go  on. 

"  Oh,  the  rest  doesn't  need  words,"  said  Mi- 
lady. "  Darrell  Vaughan  was  their  frier  d:  I 
loved  him.  He  took  me  when  madame  turned 
me  out  to  starve.  Every  door  was  shut  in  my 
face — not  a  soul  to  help !  He  took  me — he  took 
me — I  loved  him." 

There  was  something  appalling  in  the  cold- 
ness and  unconcern  of  her  speech  ;  it  frightened 
Nathalie  past  the  relief  of  tears. 

"  A  year  of  heaven — how  a  body  sticks  to  that 
word ! "  laughed  Milady.  "  Another  year  of  be- 
ing let  gradually  down  into  hell.  He  struck  me 
once ;  that  was  just  before  the  baby  was  born — 
we  were  in  New  Orleans.  The  night  she  was 
born  he  left  me — left  me  without  money  even, 
for  he'd  been  gambling,  and  had  sold  the  jewels 
he  had  given  me.  He  went  away  with  another 
woman — that's  all.  Can  you  understand,  you 
butterfly  ?" 

"  0  mon  Dieu !  man  Dieu!'" 

"  Deafer  than  a  stone,  my  dear,  even  if  He's 
any  where  about  —  deafer  than  a  stone,"  said 
Milady. 

"  Ah,  don't,  don't !  And  where  did  you  go  ? 
What  did  yon  do  ?" 

"She's  interested!"  sneered  Milady.  "It's 
like  a  novel  to  her ;  she'd  put  it  in  a  book,  if  only 
she  had  the  power.  You  must  drink  fire  and 
live  among  devils  before  your  dainty  pen  can 
write  my  history,  pretty  dear." 

"  You  frighten  me  so !  Let  me  call  Susanne ! 
Don't  you  want  to  lie  down  ?"  sobbed  Nathalie. 

"No,  my  poppet, " replied  Milady,  with  anoth- 
er smile  of  woful  derision.  "  I  must  be  up  and 
about  my  work." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"  Only  to  tell,"  said  Milady,  drawing  a  paper 
from  her  bosom,  and  replacing  it  before  Nathalie 
could  move.  "  I  want  Launce  Cromlin  ;  I've 
found  where  he  lives." 

"  Don't  go ;  let  me  send  for  him ;  you're  not 
fit." 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


191 


Milady  had  risen,  but  a  spasm  seized  her.  She 
sank  back  on  the  sofa,  her  face  livid,  her  eyes 
closed. 

Nathalie  thought  she  was  dead,  and  shrieked 
till  she  brought  in  Susanne.  The  old  woman 
caught  sight  of  the  figure  lying  on  the  couch — 
the  room  was  dim  with  shadows,  but  a  last  ray 
of  light  flashed  through  the  window,  arid  fell  upon 
the  death-like  countenance.  Susanne  shrieked 
louder  than  Nathalie  had  done,  and  dropped  upon 
her  knees. 

"  Madame's  ghost !     Madame's  ghost !" 

Nathalie  started  up  in  wilder  alarm,  glanced 
about,  half  expecting  to  see  some  phantom  shape 
arise.  Then  she  saw  that  Susanne's  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  prostrate  form,  and  understood  what 
had  caused  the  exclamation. 

"  It's  Marguerite.    I've  found  her,"  she  cried. 

Susanne  knew  the  history ;  had  heard  of  Na- 
thalie's promise,  and  understood  the  whole. 

"Is  she  dead?"  the  old  woman  asked,  in  an 
awe-stricken  tone,  as  she  struggled  up  from  her 
knees.  ^ 

At  the  same  instant  Milady  roused  herself — 
the  cramped  hands  relaxed,  the  features  lost  their 
convulsive  rigidity. 

"Who  ever  dies?"  said  she,  answering  Su- 
sanne in  French.  "  Get  me  some  water — some 
opium  too.  What  a  pair  of  fools  you  are,  al- 
ways expecting  Nina's  ghost ;  you  must  wait  till 
I'm  gone  to  see  that.  Nina  de  Favolles  — 
Nina !"  She  began  to  laugh,  to  mutter  more 
broken  words.  She  seemed  to  realize  that  her 
mind  was  wandering.  "Get  the  opium,  you 
idiots !"  she  exclaimed. 

The  voice  was  so  like  the  voice  of  her  mother, 
the  face  tortured  by  pain  so  like  Nina's  face 
as  they  had  seen  it  time  and  again  in  her  par- 
oxysms, that  even  Susanne  was  nearly  out  of 
her  senses  with  fright,  and  Nathalie  cowered 
down  into  her  chair,  and  hid  her  eyes,  utterly 
helpless.  But  Susanne  recollected  there  was 
opium  in  the  house — Darrell  Vaughan  had  sent 
her  for  it  one  night  with  a  physician's  prescrip- 
tion that  he  always  carried  about  him.  Susanne 
had  put  the  bottle  away  in  case  he  should  some 
time  ask  for  it  again.  She  ran  up-stairs  to  fetch 
it  —  the  necessity  for  action  made  her  helpful 
once  more. 

She  came  back  with  the  drug,  and  began  to 
measure  a  spoonful  into  a  tumbler  in  which  she 
had  put  some  water,  but  Milady  snatched  the 
flacon  as  Susanne  stood  by  the  sofa,  and  drained 
nearly  the  whole  contents. 

"  Sacr€  nom  tfun  cliien !"  howled  Susanne; 
"she's  poisoned  herself ;"  and  started  for  the 
door,  with  a  half-defined  intention  of  seeking 
doctors  and  stomach-pumps.  Nathalie  dared 
not  even  look  up ;  she  only  slipped  out  of  her 
chair  at  Susanne's  exclamation,  and  lay  huddled 
on  the  floor.  But  a  stern  command  from  Mi- 
lady stopped  the  old  woman  in  her  flight.  It 


was  Nina's  voice  again — just  the  words  Nina 
would  have  employed. 

"  Stay  where  you  are,  Jille  d'un  serpent .'" 

"  Won't  it  hurt  you?"  asked  Susanne, creep- 
ing timidly  back — she  who  had  never  feared  any 
body  till  now. 

"  Hurt  me  ?  I  shall  need  another  such  dose 
before  morning,"  said  Milady.  "  Where's  that 
moth — that  Nathalie  ?" 

"Here  I  am — here,"  replied  Nathalie,  sitting 
up  on  the  floor,  fairly  stunned  by  her  varying 
emotions. 

"I  want  Launce  Cromlin — I  can't  go  out  — 
send  for  him,"  said  Milady. 

"  Susanne  will  go.    Where  does  he  live  ?" 

Milady  gave  the  name  of  his  hotel. 

"  Tell  him  Milady  wants  him,"  said  she ;  "and 
be  quick  about  it,  old  woman,  for  the  opium  may 
make  me  sleep.  Entends-tu,  vieille  sorciere  ?  Ne 
me  regardes  pas  avec  tes  yeux  h€betes  —  fa  m'en- 
nuie." 

"  She  speaks  French  as  well  as  we,"  muttered 
Susanne. 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  returned  Milady,  still  speak- 
ing in  that  language.  "  I  was  brought  up  to  be  a 
grande  dame  —  more  than  you  can  say  for  Nina 
or  your  Nathalie  either." 

Then  she  reiterated  her  commands,  and  Su- 
sanne hastened  away. 

Milady  lay  back  on  the  sofa,  and  spoke  no 
more.  Nathalie  dared  not  stir  nor  address  her. 
The  room  was  quite  dark,  but  she  was  near 
enough  the  sofa  to  catch  the  glare  of  Milady's 
eyes  as  she  stared  into  the  gloom.  Nathalie  rec- 
ollected that  she  was  absolutely  alone  in  the 
house  with  the  woman.  She  had  intended  to 
dine  out,  and  the  servants  had  taken  a  holiday. 
She  pressed  her  hand  hard  against  her  mouth  to 
repress  a  scream ;  she  was  afraid  to  anger  Mi- 
lady by  a  sound. 

The  room  grew  darker  —  the  muslin  window- 
curtains  rustled  in  the  breeze  —  the  sound  was 
like  phantom  footsteps  in  Nathalie's  ears.  If 
her  mother's  ghost  should  appear!  She  could 
see  that  face  always  on  the  sofa  —  such  a  ter- 
rible likeness  to  Nina's !  She  could  not  bear  it, 
she  should  go  mad  ! 

"Marguerite!"  she  whispered.  "Marguer- 
ite!" 

There  was  no  response,  no  sign  that  her  call 
had  been  heard;  she  could  see  the  great  eyes 
staring  always.  If  she  only  dared  light  the  gas ; 
but  her  fear  of  her  companion,  a  horrible  sensa- 
tion that  something  supernatural  was  in  the  room 
with  them,  coming  closer,  closer,  deprived  her 
of  all  power  to  move.  She  heard  the  clock  strike, 
then  a  silence  and  waiting  that  seemed  endless, 
and  still  Susanne  did  not  come.  The  clock  beat 
the  half-hour,  and  the  slow  stroke  was  like  a 
heavy  weight  falling  on  her  brain.  The  moon 
came  up  over  the  opposite  houses,  cast  a  long  ray 
through  the  curtains,  and  lighted  up  the  sofa  and 


192 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


the  motionless  figure  thereon,  leaving  the  rest  of 
the  room  in  deeper  darkness. 

The  window  draperies  rustled  more  like  ghost- 
ly footsteps  than  before ;  the  sigh  of  the  low 
wind  was  like  a  ghostly  voice  whispering  some 
terrible  menace  in  an  unknown  tongue.  If  she 
could  get  away — only  out  on  the  steps,  and  sit 
there  till  Susanne  appeared.  But  she  could  not 
move.  She  must  cry  out — no  matter  what  Mar- 
guerite might  do,  her  anger  could  not  be  so  ter- 
rible as  this  stillness.  She  tried  to  shriek — her 
voice  was  gone ;  even  in  her  own  ears  there 
sounded  only  a  hoarse  murmur  which  seemed 
no  effort  of  hers. 

And  now  memory  after  memory  came  up, 
stunned  as  she  was.  Her  mother's  death-bed — 
her  husband's  warnings.  Oh, was  she  dying? 
was  this  hell  already — the  hell  in  whose  exist- 
ence she  had  hitherto  been  certain  she  had  no 
belief?  Terrible,  denunciatory  sermons  her 
mother  had  made  her  read  drifted  through  her 
mind — the  awful  papistical  warnings  to  heretics 
and  reprobates — and  she  was  both.  Elizabeth's 
face,  like  that  of  an  accusing  angel,  rose.  Her 
own  mad  theories,  the  absurd  creeds  which  she 
had  believed  in  and  helped  to  promulgate, 
haunted  her.  Passages  from  her  own  books, 
that  she  had  admired  as  brave  and  fearless  to 
fling  in  the  face  of  the  world's  prejudices,  rang 
in  her  ears  like  a  knell  of  doom. 

She  was  dying,  dying,  and  the  warning  her 
husband  had  uttered  was  being  fulfilled  ! 

"  Darrell  Vaughan !     Darrell  Vaughan  !" 

It  was  Milady's  voice  that  broke  the  stillness. 
She  had  not  moved  ;  the  lids  had  dropped  par- 
tially over  the  dull  glare  of  her  eyes ;  the  power- 
ful narcotic  had  begun  its  effects. 

"Marguerite !  Marguerite !"  called  Nathalie, 
but  it  was  only  a  strangled  whisper  still — no  an- 
swer came. 

Was  Marguerite  dead? — had  she  died  with 
that  name  on  her  lips?  Oh,  would  Susanne 
never  come  back  ?  If  she  could  only  shriek  for 
help ;  she  heard  some  one  passing  along  the 
street,  singing  as  he  went.  With  one  last  mighty 
effort  she  got  upon  her  feet,  and  staggered  toward 
the  door,  but  the  momentary  strength  gave  way, 
and  she  fell  senseless. 

Half  an  hour  later,  old  Susanne,  entering  the 
drawing-room,  followed  by  Launce  Cromlin, 
stumbled  over  Nathalie's  prostrate  form. 

They  lighted  the  gas,  and  looked  about.  Mi- 
bily  lay  on  the  sofa  in  a  deep  lethargic  slumber, 
from  which  no  efforts  could  rouse  her ;  and  when 
Nathalie  was  brought  back  to  consciousness,  she 
was  only  capable  of  hysterical  bursts  of  anguish, 
flight,  and  rage,  by  which  Launce  gathered 
enough  to  know  that  retribution  was  guiding  two 
merciless  women  on  Darrell  Vaughan's  track, 
and  that  he  must  act  quickly  if  he  would  save 
the  man  from  utter  ruin  and  disgrace. 


CHAPTER  XL. 


THE   MILL   OF  THE   GODS. 

THE  night  has  passed — another  day  gone — the 
twilight  has  come  again. 

Darrell  Vaughan  rings  at  the  door  of  Natha- 
lie's house — is  admitted,  and  hastens  into  the 
drawing-room.  He  has  sent  word  of  his  arrival 
— he  has  come  to  dine.  Nathalie  is  waiting  for 
him,  beautifully  dressed ;  her  neck  and  arms 
bare ;  the  plume  of  jewels  that  he  gave  her  shin- 
ing among  her  yellow  curls. 

"My  beautiful — my  star  !"  he  cries,  and  hur- 
ries forward,  bending  on  one  knee  to  kiss  her 
white  hands,  knowing  how  she  likes  effective 
scenes  and  exaggerated  gallantry.  "  Why,  you 
are  superb  ;  one  would  think  you  were  dressed 
for  a  royal  ball !"  he  adds,  laughingly. 

"  Hasn't  the  king  come  again  ?"  returns  she, 
with  easy  playfulness,  leaving  her  hands  in  his 
clasp. 

"And  you  are  glad  to  see  me — you  missed 
me?" 

"  I  never  missed  you  so  much,"  she  replies. 
"I  never  was  so  glad  to  see  you — never !" 

He  wants  to  take  her  in  his  arms — to  kiss  the 
lips  for  whose  sweetness  his  passionate  soul  is 
hungry.  But  Nathalie  has  never  permitted  that, 
so  her  repulse  neither  surprises  nor  angers  him, 
only  increases  the  wild  tumult  in  his  heart.  He 
pours  forth  anew  the  story  of  his  love,  and  Natha- 
lie listens.  She  makes  him  \o\v  and  swear ;  she 
is  teazing  and  capricious,  tender  and  coquettish, 
all  at  once  ;  and  Vaughan  declares  that  even  if 
he  had  to  relinquish  his  whole  future,  it  would 
be  well  lost  for  her  sake.  He  has  forgotten  the 
weary  numbness  which  has  oppressed  him  for 
days — making  pleasure  an  impossibility,  busi- 
ness a  maze.  Wine  and  opium  have  failed  in 
their  effects,  but  he  has  had  recourse  to  hash- 
eesh, and  is  full  of  life  and  nervous  vitality  to  his 
very  finger-tips. 

Desperate,  shaken  as  Nathalie  is,  sick  and 
frightened  by  remorse,  the  details  she  has  this 
day  heard  of  Marguerite's  life — shuddering  at 
the  very  sight  of  this  man — she  finds  a  certain 
pleasure  in  acting  the  scene.  She  is  waiting 
for  Launce  Cromlin — she  knows  he  will  come. 
Launce  has  been  too  wise  to  oppose  the  implac- 
able women — careful  not  to  awaken  their  suspi- 
cions, lest  they  should  expose  Vaughan  before  he 
can  bring  Elizabeth — he  has  no  hope  save  in  her. 

But  Launce  does  not  appear.  The  dinner- 
hour  has  arrived — Vaughan  will  wonder ;  be- 
sides, her  anger  rushes  up  again,  and  she  longs 
to  begin  the  work. 

"  Do  you  like  surprises  ?"  she  asks. 

"  Any  you  could  give  me  would  be  pleasant," 
he  replies. 

She  laughs  ;  he  sees  her  eyes  glitter  oddly. 

"  You  are  not  well,  I  do  believe,"  he  says. 
"You  are  nervous  ;  not  like  yourself,  somehow." 


ME.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


193 


"  Quite  myself— quite  !"  and  her  laugh  fairly 
ias  a  ring  like  Milady's  ;  but  Darrell  Vaughan 
3oes  not  think  of  that.  "About  my  surprise," 
she  continues. 

"You  shall  tell  me  at  dinner.  I  have  eaten 
nothing  all  day." 

He  might  have  named  a  longer  time  than  that, 
for  his  appetite  oT  late  has  entirely  deserted  him. 
He  has  lived  almost  wholly  on  stimulants  for  a 
iveek  past,  but  to-night  the  thought  of  food  does 
not  bring  back  the  sickness  and  abhorrence  he  has 
been  suffering  from,  and  he  wants  champagne  too. 

She  laughs  and  jests,  and  he  goes  on  his  knees 
again  beside  her.  Then  Nathalie,  laying  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  says — 

"You  shall  have  the  surprise  first,"  lifts  her 
voice,  and  calls,  "  Come  in !" 

The  door  of  the  apartment  at  the  back  of  the 
drawing-room  opens — a  woman  dressed  in  black 
moves  swift  and  noiseless  as  a  ghost  close  to 
them,  and  Vaughan  starts  to  his  feet  with  an  in- 
articulate cry. 

"This  is  my  sister  —  this  is  Milady!"  he 
hears  Nathalie  exclaim,  and  then  Milady's  an- 
swer— 

"A  family  party,  Darrell  Vaughan." 

And  both  women  laugh. 

He  makes  one  grasp  at  his  reeling  faculties, 
and  says — 

"  Where  did  you  pick  up  that  mad  woman, 
Nathalie  ?  What  crazy  stoiy  has  she  been  tell- 
ing you  ?" 

Nathalie's  wretched  nerves  are  so  near  giving 
way  after  the  force  she  has  put  upon  herself  to 
bring  the  scene  to  a  climax  that  she  can  only 
sink  back  in  her  chair  and  fight  against  hysterical 
screams  ;  his  very  composure  adds  to  her  ex- 
citement. 

As  he  glances  from  one  to  the  other,  Vaughan 's 
thought  is  not  that  which  would  come  to  most 
men  at  a  crisis  like  this.  He  does  not  think  of  the 
possibility  of  Milady's  having  some  actual  proof 
which  may  ruin  him  before  the  world — does  not 
think  of  danger  or  disgrace.  He  only  realizes 
that  after  all  his  waiting,  his  patience,  Milady 
has  lost  him  this  bewitching  creature,  for  whom 
he  has  been  ready  to  sacrifice  so  much.  One  of 
his  cold  rages  seizes  him ;  his  impulse  is  to  spring 
forward  and  fell  the  woman  to  the  floor. 

"Yes,  I  see  it  in  your  eyes, "says  Milady, 
quietly.  "  I'm  a  ghost,  Darrell  Vaughan  ;  you 
can't  murder  me  again." 

He  turns  his  back  impatiently  upon  her. 

"Nathalie !"  he  cries,  "she  is  a'  mad  woman 
— she  has  been  in  an  asylum  in  California  ;  you 
can't  heed  any  story  she  may  tell.  Send  for 
somebody  to  take  her  away." 

"Back  to  prison,  perhaps,"  says  Milady. 
"  No,  no  ;  you  can't  play  the  same  game  twice ; 
there  are  no  diamonds  to  steal  in  my  name  now." 

"  Nathalie,  Nathalie,  listen  to  me !"  he  ex- 
claims.    He  can  only  think  of  her — of  his  love, 
N 


of  his  wild  passion,  which  has  never  had  its  first 
fever  slaked. 

"I  don't  want  to  look  at  you,  to  hear  your 
voice,"  sobs  Nathalie,  unable  to  be  either  heroic 
or  dramatic.  "I  hate  you! — I  hate  you!  The 
whole  world  shall  know — liar — forger — thief!" 

The  coarse  instincts  inherited  from  Nina  de 
Favolles  break  out  in  Nathalie  as  they  have  nev- 
er done  in  her  whole  life.  She  finds  pleasure  in 
screaming  these  denunciations  in  his  ear.  Com- 
pared to  her,  Milady's  frozen  impassibility  is 
dignified  and  feminine. 

But  Vaughan  does  not  half  take  in  the  sense 
of  the  added  imprecations  which  Nathalie  pours 
out  in  Nina's  voice  and  with  Nina's  very  gest- 
ures. She  looks  diabolically  beautiful  in  her 
fury ;  he  can  only  think  of  that — that  and  his 
desire  to  murder  MilAdy  and  stifle  Nathalie  in 
his  arms  with  hot  kisses. 

He  makes  a  step  toward  her.  Nathalie  shrinks 
back,  crying — 

"I'll  kill  you  if  you  touch  me;  I'll  call  the 
police." 

' '  Nathalie !"  he  groans.  "  I  love  you ! — I  love 
you!  I  never  loved  any  other  woman — I  care 
for  nothing  else  in  the  world.  Don't  mind  her — 
I  tell  you  she's  mad ;  I'll  not  give  you  up,  I'll 
not !" 

Furious  as  she  is — in  spite  of  her  horror,  of 
the  newly  awakened  remorse  for  the  errors  of 
her  life  which  have  this  day  beset  her — Natha- 
lie is  touched  by  the  plea.  He  looks  so  hand- 
some too — like- a  god,  she  thinks.  No  man  can 
talk  like  him,  no  man's  love  be  worth  the  having 
— and  he  is  lost  to  her ;  a  gulf,  black  as  the  hor- 
rors of  the  eternity  in  which  she  has  sudden- 
ly begun  to  believe,  looms  between  them.  She 
loves  him — she  loves  him :  no,  she  hates  him ; 
but  the  excitement  has  gone  from  her  life — the 
drama  is  played  out ;  she  is  afraid  of  him — her- 
self; the  very  fame  of  which  she  has  been  so  ab- 
surdly vain  has  grown  loathsome  and  abhorrent. 

So  Nathalie  can  find  nothing  better  to  do  than 
to  go  into  strong  hysterics,  struggling,  fighting, 
striking  at  Vaughan  as  he  tries  to  get  to  her, 
with  some  mad  intention  of  carrying  her  off  be- 
fore she  can  get  sense  to  resist ;  and  Milady's  icy 
voice  rises  again,  making  itself  audible  alike  to 
Nathalie  in  her  spasm  and  Vaughan  in  his  in- 
sane whirl  of  resolve. 

"What  a  family  party!"  she  repeats.  "Be 
quiet,  both  of  you;  I've  had  enough  of  this." 

That  cold,  passionless  voice — it  has  a  power 
which  stills  them  both,  even  at  this  instant. 
She  looks  so  like  a  ghost,  the  voice  is  so  dead. 
Had  she  indeed  come  back  from  the  grave,  they 
could  not  regard  her  with  deeper  horror. 

Before  either  of  the  three  can  stir  or  speak 
again,  the  door  opens.  A  carriage  has  driven 
to  the  house  unheard  by  them ;  now  the  draw- 
ing-room door  opens,  and  Elizabeth  enters,  fol- 
lowed by  Mr.  Carstoe  and  Launce  Cromlin. 


194 


MR.  VAUGIIAN'S  HEIR. 


"  I  am  not  too  laic — oh,  I  thank  God  for  it !" 
are  the  words  that  fall  from  Elizabeth's  lips. 

She  walks  directly  up  to  Milady,  who  stands 
dumbly  staring.  Nathalie  has  retreated  to  a 
sofa.  Darrell  Vaughan's  eyes  wander  from  Car- 
stoe  to  Launce  with  a  look  of  murderous  hate, 
then  remain  fixed  by  a  kind  of  fascination  upon 
the  face  of  the  woman  who  was  once  his  wife. 

4 'Marguerite, "says  Elizabeth, softly,  "do  you 
know  who  I  am  ?" 

"Yes,  I  know," replies  Milady,  in  her  defiant 
voice.  "  Crauford's  daughter!  There's  Nina's 
girl  yonder!  Here's  Milady,  with  the  blood  of 
both  in  her  veins  !" 

"Marguerite — my  sister!" 

Elizabeth's  tone  is  low,  but  it  does  not  falter ; 
it  strikes  with  unearthly  sweetness  on  the  ear  of 
every  listener  there,  and  her  pale  face  is  lighted 
with  a  look  of  tenderness  and  patience  which 
renders  its  loveliness  more  than  mortal. 

"  Marguerite — sister !" 

Milady's  defiant  head  droops  ;  she  sways  back 
and  forth,  drops  on  her  knees,  and  stares  up  in 
Elizabeth's  face  as  a  lost  soul  in  purgatory  might 
stare  at  an  angel  suddenly  descended  into  the 
midst  of  the  darkness  with  words  of  heavenly 
comfort. 

"Don't!"  she  gasps,  in  an  awful  whisper. 
"Pretty  soon  you  will  make  me  believe  in  God 
Almighty." 

None  of  the  others  utter  a  sound — even  Na- 
thalie is  dumb.  As  for  Darrell  Vaughan,  the 
numbness  in  his  brain,  the  ringing  in  his  ears, 
has  returned.  He  can  only  support  himself 
against  the  table,  and  wonder  vaguely  what  is  to 
come  next. 

"You  will  believe,"  Elizabeth  answers;  "it 
is  for  that  He  has  brought  us  to  this  hour." 

Milady  gazes  from  one  to  another,  pointing 
at  Elizabeth  with  her  wasted  hand.  Her  face 
has  lost  its  icy  coldness :  it  is  troubled,  shaken. 
She  looks  as  she  used  in  the  prison,  when  won- 
dering if  she  were  indeed  mad. 

"Crauford's  daughter,"  she  says,  in  a  diffi- 
cult, broken  tone. 

"And  your  sister,"  adds  Elizabeth. 

Milady  struggles  up  from  her  knees,  and  looks 
round  the  group  —  then  her  eyes  go  back  to 
Elizabeth. 

"Would  you  take  me  home?  would  you  not 
l>e  ashamed — you  that  are  grand  and  respectable 
— not  like  her,  she's  nothing  to  lose  "  (pointing 
to  Nathalie) — "  would  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

Again  Milady's  eyes  wander  to  the  faces  about 
her,  with  the  same  expression  of  troubled  won- 
der— come  back  once  more  to  Elizabeth  with  a 
wistful  eagerness  that  makes  her  whole  counte- 
nance look  younger. 

"I  wouldn't  go," she  says,  abruptly.  "I'm 
not  human,  but  I  seem  to  have  a  touch  of  hu- 
manity about  me — I  wouldn't  go." 


She  tries  to  shrink  away  ;  Elizabeth  tikes  her 
hand,  and  holds  it  fast. 

"Marguerite,"  she  says,  "you  have  a  paper 
that  I  want  you  to  give  me." 

Milady  wrenches  her  hand  free,  the  dull  fire 
kindles  anew  in  her  eyes,  the  look  of  dogged  res- 
olution hardens  her  features. 

"I  had  forgotten  every  thing, "she  mutters. 
Then  she  points  to  Darrell  Vaughan,  and  adds, 
in  a  louder  tone — "  Yes,  a  paper ;  he  and  all  of 
you  shall  hear." 

The  strange  numbness  is  growing  stronger 
through  Vaughan's  whole  frame;  only  some- 
thing in  his  temples  seems  to  beat  and  turn  like 
the  roll  of  a  noisy  wheel.  He  feels  about  for  a 
chair,  and  sits  down. 

"So  this  is  a  plot !"  he  exclaims,  "  and  you're 
all  in  it ;  much  good  may  it  do  you." 

"Marguerite,"  continues  Elizabeth,  regard- 
less as  the  others  that  he  has  spoken, "give  me 
the  paper — we  don't  want  to  hear  it." 

Milady  looks  confused  and  troubled  ;  her  eves 
wander  toward  Cromlin,  and  her  face  grows  de- 
termined again. 

"I  must  tell,"  she  says.  "I  don't  want 
vengeance !  I'm  a  ghost,  but  I  must  tell." 

"  How  much  longer  is  this  little  scene  with 
that  mad  woman  to  go  on?"  Vaughan  breaks 
in.  "Carstoe,  you  used  not  to  be  quite  a  fool ; 
you  must  know  this  is  nonsense !  As  for  my 
precious  cousin  there,  of  course  I  understand  his 
little  game." 

Neither  of  the  men  appears  to  hear.  Vanghan 
clenches  his  hands  over  the  arms  of  his  chair  to 
hold  himself  still.  He  can  not  even  venture  to 
go  on  speaking ;  he  feels  his  utterance  become 
thick,  and  that  remorseless  wheel  turn  faster  and 
faster  in  his  brain. 

"You're  fond  of  calling  people  mad,  Darrell 
Vaughan,"  cries  Nathalie,  with  a  hysterical  langh 
and  sob.  "You  were  going  to  shut  your  wife 
up !  He  was,  Elizabeth  !  He  told  me  his  wife 
was  a  monomaniac,  and  needed  to  be  confined. 
Oh,  I  didn't  know  it  was  you — I  didn't  know  it 
was  you!" 

"Hush,  Nathalie,"  returns  Elizabeth. 

The  wretched  creature  cowers  back  into  her 
place,  and  weeps  silently.  For  the  first  time  in 
her  life  a  sense  of  shame  oppresses  her — she  is 
positively  afraid  to  meet  Elizabeth's  eyes. 

"  She's  only  a  silly  little  moth,"  says  Milady  : 
"  she's  not  even  what  they  call  wicked,  you 
know." 

"  I  know,"  replies  Elizabeth. 

"  She  believes  me— she  believes  me  !"  shrieks 
Nathalie.  "  Oh,  I  can  die  contented  now." 

Vaughan  laughs.  Nathalie's  sobs  redouble, 
and  she  moans  incoherent  words  of  grief  and 
passion. 

"Be  still!"  orders  Milady,  sternly,  and  the 
weak,  half -made  creature  buries  her  head  in 
the  sofa  pillows,  and  presses  her  handkerchief 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


against  her  mouth,  frightened  into  a  fresh  effort 
at  self-control. 

"Give  me  the  paper,  Marguerite,"  repeats 
Elizabeth,  in  the  same  low,  gentle  voice,  which 
has  such  a  ring  of  command  in  spite  of  its  per- 
suasiveness. 

"  No  !"  answers  Milady.  "  It  must  go  to  the 
lawyers  —  I  can't  give  it  up  —  I  must  do  my 
work  ;  it  has  been  set  for  me — I  must  do  it." 

"  There  is  no  need  now,  Marguerite." 

"  Yes,  there  is  ;  you  don't  know  !  It  is  the 
will — the  will  Darrell  Vaughan  thought  he  had 
burned  :  it  gives  all  the  fortune  to  him  "  (point- 
ing to  Launce)  ;  "he  must  have  his  rights." 

"  You  set  of  infernal  liars !"  exclaims  Vaugh- 
an, starting  out  of  his  chair.  "Pretty  instru- 
ments you  choose,  Madame  Elizabeth — a  street- 
walker, a  convict  —  to  help  you  and  Launce  to 
my  money.  Launce,  who  is  your — " 

Cromlin  strides  forward — Mr.  Carstoe  pushes 
him  back,  and  himself  stands  over  Vaughan. 

"One  word  more,  and  I'll  call  in  the  officers 
myself,"  he  says.  "That  angel  yonder  is  try- 
ing to  save  you — one  word,  and  I  will  take  your 
punishment  into  my  own  hands.  I  tell  you  it  is 
of  no  use  to  struggle — all  is  exposed." 

The  old  man  positively  looks  grand  in  his 
stern  indignation.  Vaughan  falls  back  ia  his 
chair — not  from  fear — he  can  stand  no  longer  ; 
the  beat,  beat  of  that  wheel  leaves  him  half  deaf 
to  Carstoe's  words. 

"  I'm  just  what  he  says,"  pursues  Milady, 
looking  at  Elizabeth;  "he  made  me  so.  I've 
been  a  convict  —  he  shut  me  up— he  stole  the 
jewels — he  came  to  my  room — drugged  me — " 

"  We  know,  Marguerite,"  breaks  in  Launce. 

"  But  you  must  have  your  rights,"  she  goes 
on,  in  the  same  passionless  tone.  "  The  fortune 
is  yours — " 

"  I  have  had  moral  proof  of  that  for  years," 
Launce  interrupts  again  ;  "  it  does  not  matter." 

Elizabeth  has  not  once  glanced  toward  her 
former  husband.  Now  she  turns — it  is  with  a 
great  effort,  as  one  can  see— and  walks  toward 
him.  Even  the  horror  and  dread  leave  her  face 
as  she  looks  into  his,  altered  greatly  in  these 
weeks,  and  comprehends  as  none  of  the  others 
do  the  possible  effects  of  this  scene  upon  his 
broken  frame.  There  is  nothing  save  pity  in 
her  eyes  now.  He  tries  to  meet  her  glance,  but 
when  he  sees  that  look  his  eyes  sink. 

"Mr. Vaughan,"  she  says.  "Marguerite  is 
right.  You  must  make  over  to  your  cousin  the 
fortune  left  by  your  uncle  ;  it  is  his." 

"I  don't  want  it;  let  him  keep  the  whole," 
cvies  Launce. 

Elizabeth  silences  him  with  a  gesture. 

"  Will  you  do  this,  Mr.  Vauglian  ?"  she  asks. 

He  gathers  up  the  remnants  of  his  failing 
strength  in  a  mad  passion,  that  for  a  moment 
avercomes  the  weakness,  the  intolerable  phys- 
ical agony. 


"  No !"  he  fairly  shouts.  " Oh,  you  devil ;  if 
I  had  only  murdered  you  long  ago  !" 

Nathalie  shrieks  aloud  at  his  face  and  voice, 
but  the  others  are  unmoved. 

"Madam,"  says  Mr.  Carstoe,  addressing  Eliz- 
abeth, "  you  must  allow  Marguerite  to  tell  her 
story ;  nothing  else  will  convince  that  wretched 
man  of  his  madness  in  hesitating." 

"  Tell  it,  then,  Marguerite,"  rejoins  Elizabeth, 
wearily,  and  she  moves  away  from  Vaughan's 
side. 

Even  in  the  excitement  of  this  moment,  Mr. 
Carstoe  and  Launce  are  both  conscious  of  think- 
ing it  is  like  seeing  a  good  angel  turn  from  a 
sinner's  presence,  warned  that  intercession  is  no 
longer  possible. 

"I  knew  he  forged  Launce  Cromlin's  name," 
says  Milady,  slowly.  "It  was  before  he  took 
me  to  New  Orleans.  He  was  tired  of  me  ;  he 
struck  me  once,  but  I  couldn't  tell  of  him.  I 
have  the  papers  where  he  used  to  practice  writ- 
ing the  name.  Long  afterwards,  in  California, 
Jem  Davis,  the  man  that  helped,  confessed  when 
he  was  dying;  it's  all  written  down." 

She  speaks  in  a  chill,  mechanical  fashion, 
without  the  slightest  trace  of  emotion. 

Vaughan  has  to  make  a  great  effort  to  listen 
and  understand.  The  numbness  increases — the 
wheel  turns  faster  in  his  brain. 

"Youfools!"he  calls, hoarsely.  "Thatthing's 
chatter  is  no  evidence ;  you  can't  make  a  wit- 
ness of  her." 

"But  the  written  documents  in  her  posses-' 
sion,  with  signatures  which  can  be  sworn  to,  are 
evidence — you  know  that,"  replies  Mr.  Carstoe. 

"She  has  none !"  cries  Vaughan. 

"  Davis's  confession  is  in  my  hands,"  returns 
the  lawyer.  "  She  gave  it  to  your  cousin  last 
night.  He  tried  to  get  the  will,  tried  in  every 
way  to  save  you,  but  she  would  not  consent. 
You  intercepted  the  check  your  uncle  sent  to 
Cromlin ;  you  altered  it  to  fifteen  thousand  dol- 
lars— forged  Cromlin's  name.  Davis  presented 
it  at  the  bank  ;  the  teller  was  your  accomplice. 
Davis  had  three  thousand  dollars  for  his  share ; 
he  was  in  difficulty,  and  wanted  to  get  off  to 
Mexico.  He  swore  to  all  this  on  his  death-bed. 
You  see  we  know  every  thing." 

"  You  are  an  old  villain !  you  are  their  tool !" 
thunders  Vaughan. 

"As  a  last  resource,"  pursues  Mr.  Carstoe, 
"  that  much-injured  lady,  who  was  once  your 
wife,  has  come  to  plead  for  you  and  with  you. 
For  God's  sake,  don't  render  her  interposition 
useless — don't  force  the  rest  of  us  to  act. " 

"  I  don't  want  any  preaching !"  cries  Vaugh- 
an, shaking  his  fist  aimlessly  in  the  air.  "I'll 
fight  it  out! — I'll  fight  it  out!  It  is  a  plot — a 
trick ;  the  woman  is  hired  by  my  wife  and  my 
wife's  lover. " 

But  even  Launce  can  not  be  roused  beyond 
pity  now.  , 


196 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


"Marguerite,"  says  Mr.  Carstoe,  "  let  me  look 
at  the  signatures  to  that  will." 

She  hesitates. 

"  You  can  keep  it  in  your  hands ;  I  only  want 
to  asture  this  man  of  the  folly  of  more  words." 

Milady  draws  the  paper  from  her  bosom  — 
three  fragments  rather. 

"  He  tore  it,"  she  explains. 

Mr.  Carstoe  examines  the  pieces ;  fits  them 
together ;  Milady  not  trying  to  prevent  his  tak- 
ing them. 

"  I  can  swear  to  the  signatures,"  he  says.  "  I 
can  bring  twenty  men  in  Moysterville  to  swear 
to  that  of  Mr.  Vaughan.  The  witnesses,  Mrs. 
Simpson  and  Anthony  Turner,  will  swear  to  their 
own.  Mrs.  Simpson  always  assured  me  that  she 
signed  three  documents ;  one  was  the  codicil 
made  out  to  go  with  the  other  will." 

"The  other  will!"  repeats  Vaughan,  with  a 
laugh.  "  You're  a  fool  after  all,  Carstoe  ;  how 
many  could  there  have  been?  I  don't  suppose 
you,  at  least,  will  attempt  to  deny  that  the  will 
we  found  in  my  uncle's  desk,  giving  me  the  fort- 
une, was  a  genuine  one  ?" 

The  sudden  loophole  which  has  suggested  it- 
self clears  Vaughan's  brain  enough  for  him  to 
speak  collectedly.  It  is  a  tremendous  effort,  and 
in  spite  of  himself  his  head  sinks  back  against 
his  chair  as  he  ends. 

"  It  was  a  genuine  document,"  Mr.  Carstoe 
replies ;  "  it  was  a  will  made  long  before  his 
death ;  the  codicil,  I  suppose,  was  added  when 
he  learned  that  Cromlin  was  innocent  in  the  for- 
gery matter." 

"There,"  mutters  Vaughan,  "you  have  up- 
set the  plot  yourself." 

"The  codicil  was  drawn  up,"  continues  Mr. 
Carstoe,  "  when  Mr.  Vaughan's  lawyer  discov- 
ered that  Launce  Cromlin  could  not  have  forged 
the  check,  because  proof  had  come  that,  for  six 
weeks  before  its  date  and  six  weeks  after,  he  was 
unable  to  use  his  hand.  He  had  had  a  compound 
fracture  of  the  right  arm ;  that  came  out  in  a 
chance  conversation  with  the  physician  who  at- 
tended him :  you  all  know  that  as  well  as  I. 
Now  I  had  supposed  that  Mr.  Vaughan  then 
made  a  will  dividing  the  fortune  equally  be- 
tween his  two  nephews ;  but  I  found  the  codicil 
attached  to  the  will  drawn  up  long  before,  when 
he  first  believed  Cromlin  guilty  —  the  will  by 
which  you,  Darrell  Vaughan,  inherited  the  prop- 
erty." 

Vaughan  is  too  dizzy  to  speak,  but  his  face 
lights  with  triumph.  His  head  is  so  confused 
that  every  thing  still  seems  secure  to  him. 

"  I  can  tell,"  says  Milady ;  "  do  you  want  me 
to?" 

"Yes— every  thing,"  returns  Mr. Carstoe. 
"  When  Jem  Davis  made  his  confession,"  she 
begins  again,  in  the  same  slow,  methodical  fash- 
ion, "I  took  the  paper  he  had  signed  in  the 
presence  of  a  clergyman,  and  went  to  Moyster- 


ville. I  was  alive  then,  and  I  wanted  my  re- 
venge"—  she  looked  at  Elizabeth  as  she  said 
this — "  but  I'm  a  ghost  now:  I  don't  hate  him  ; 
but  I  have  to  tell." 

"  Yes,  Marguerite,"  Elizabeth  whispers. 

"I  went  to  old  Mr.  Vaughan,"  pursues  Mi- 
lady. "  He  was  ill,  but  he  was  in  his  library.  I 
gave  him  Jem's  confession  ;  then  I  told  him  all 
about  myself.  He  was  very  good  to  me — " 

Her  voice  falters  slightly,  and  she  breaks  off 
for  an  instant,  then  continues  as  quietly  as  ever — 

"It  was  a  dreadful  blow  to  know  about  Dar- 
rell; but  he  didn't  forget  to  be  good  to  me. 
When  he  could  talk,  he  showed  a  will  he  had 
made  a  few  days  before,  giving  the  property 
equally  to  those  two  there,  and  he  read  me  the 
codicil  about  Elizabeth ;  it  was  written  to  go 
with  that  will." 

Even  Mr.  Carstoe  looks  perplexed  now,  and 
watches  her  narrowly,  to  see  if  there  is  the  least 
sign  of  mental  aberration,  and  Vaughan  laughs 
again. 

"The  codicil  was  fastened  to  the  will  by  three 
seals,"  says  Milady.  "  Mr. Vaughan  broke  them 
off,  then  he  destroyed  the  will — I  put  it  in  the 
fire  for  him  myself." 

The  room  has  teen  still  enough  before ;  it 
grows  strangely  silent  now — even  Vaughan  does 
not  stir. 

"  He  told  me  to  come  back  to  him  the  next 
day — he  meant  to  help  me- — help  me!  Sol 
went ;  he  was  in  his  library  again,  but  very  weak. 
He  had  had  Mr.  Smith  there  ;  he  showed  me  the 
new  will,  leaving  every  thing  to  Launce  Cromlin 
— this  will,"  and  she  holds  it  up. 

"And  therein  he  tells  the  reasons,"  adds  Mr. 
Carstoe.  "What  more,  Marguerite?" 

"  He  put  this  will,  giving  the  money  to  Crom- 
lin, back  in  his  cabinet,"  says  Milady.  "He 
saved  the  codicil  because  he  said  he  had  not  de- 
cided how  to  alter  it,  but  it  must  apply  to  Launce 
alone.  He  showed  me  the  letter  he  had  that 
morning  written  to  Elizabeth — he  called  her  my 
sister ;  that  letter  was  for  Launce  to  give  her. 
He  said  that  he  had  put  the  first  will  of  all — the 
one  by  which  Darrell  inherited — away  where  he 
could  not  find  it.  His  head  was  bad,  and  he 
could  not  remember — he  should  hunt  for  it  later ; 
but  it  was  no  matter,  because  the  last  one  would 
hold  good." 

She  has  been  standing  all  the  while — she  looks 
about  now  wearily — Elizabeth  draws  a  chair  for- 
ward, and  seats  her  in  it. 

Darrell  is  trying  to  speak,  to  collect  his  thoughts 
to  find  some  hope  of  escape.  But  he  can  only 
lean  back,  faint  under  the  dull  thud  in  his  brain, 
which  Milady's  voice  pierces  like  a  cold  wind. 

"Then,  just  as  he  had  begun  to  talk  again 
about  me,"  she  goes  on,  "he  fell  on  the  floor  in 
a  fit.  I  ran  to  call  help,  and  met  Mrs.  Simpson; 
Then  I  went  away — I  had  no  right  to  stay." 

"  I  wonder  if  she  has  almost  finished  ?"  theV 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


197 


hear  Vaughan  mutter — not  in  defiance  or  scorn. 
But  no  one  comprehends  that  it  is  just  bodily 
pain  which  wrings  out  the  words — her  voice  hurts. 

"  The  next  day  Darrell  Vaughan  came,"  says 
Milady.  "  I  stayed  in  Moysterville — something 
kept  me.  I  watched  the  house — I  watched  him. 
I  learned  how  to  get  into  it  day  or  night  by  a 
back  door — down  through  the  cellar,  and  up  into 
a  closet  where  they  kept  the  wood  for  the  library 
fire  ;  the  closet  had  a  door  into  the  library." 

"  Oh,  that  woman  !"  mutters  Vaughan.  "  I 
always  wondered  how  she  got  there — why,  I 
thought  it  was  her  ghost  at- first!" 

"The  night  Mr. Vaughan  died  I  went  to  my 
hiding-place.  I'd  seen  Darrell  at  the  papers  be- 
fore— I  knew  he  would  destroy  the  will  now ;  I 
thought  I  could  call  some  one  in  time.  I  saw 
Darrell  at  the  cabinet ;  I  stood  behind  him  with- 
out his  knowing  I  was  there.  He  had  found 
both  wills,  and  the  copy  of  Jem's  confession  — 
Mr.  Vaughan  had  told  me  to  keep  the  original 
myself  for  the  present ;  he  meant  to  confront 
me  with  Darrell — was  expecting  him  every  day." 

She  stops  to  rest  for  an  instant — nobody 
moves. 

"Darrell  fastened  the  codicil  to  the  old  will 
— I  don't  know  why." 

"Because  I  had  read  it — had  told  him  so," 
says  Mr.  Carstoe. 

"  He  tore  the  new  will,  got  np,  threw  it  on  the 
fire.  I  was  going  to  stop  him ;  but  there  was  a 
noise  overhead  —  he  ran  out  of  the  room.  I 
picked  the  will  off  the  coals — the  fire  was  al- 
most out.  I  hid  that  and  Jem's  confession  in 
the  secret  drawer  of  the  cabinet — old  Mr.  Vaugh- 
an had  opened  it  when  he  was  hunting  for  the 
first  will — he  said  nobody  knew  the  secret  or 
could  discover  it.  Then  I  threw  another  paper 
on  the  fire." 

"  Why  did  you  hide  them  ?"  asks  Mr.  Carstoe. 

"Because  I  wanted  to  stay  and  see  Darrell, 
and  I  was  afraid  he  might  suspect,  and  get  the 
will  away. " 

"Yes;  go  on." 

"  He  came  back — he  saw  me — he  did  choke 
me,  and  drag  me  about  the  room ;  but  he  noticed 
the  ashes  on  the  hearth,  and  thought  the  will 
was  burned." 

There  is  a  sound  from  Vaughan,  more  like 
the  growl  of  a  wild  animal  than  a  moan,  yet  it 
is  a  sound  of  suffering.  Every  body  except  Mi- 
lady starts  forward  ;  he  waves  them  off— strug- 
gles fiercely  for  strength,  and  sits  upright. 

"  Go  on,  you  devil !"  he  says. 

"  I  told  him  it  was  I  who  had  come  to  his 
uncle — I  who  had  done  the  work  ;  that  I  would 
defeat  him  yet.  He  beat  me — he  tried  to  bar- 
gain with  me ;  finally,  he  told  me  to  do  my 
worst,  and  he  opened  the  glass  door  that  led 
onto  the  veranda,  and  pushed  me  out." 

"There  she  was  in  my  hands,  and  I  didn't 
kill  her  !"  mutters  Vaughan's  voice  again. 


"  I  was  ill  for  several  days — he  had  hurt  me ; 
and  besides  it  was  raining  that  night,  and  I 
caught  cold.  I  knew  the  funeral  was  over,  and 
the  will  read,  and  Darrell  had  the  fortune.  The 
first  day  I  could  get  out  I  went  to  the  pawn- 
broker's to  get  some  money  on  a  ring,  for  I  had 
none  left.  I  saw  Darrell  and  Mr.  Carstoe  in  the 
bank  door.  I  meant  to  tell  Mr.  Carstoe ;  but  I 
dared  not  then — I  wanted  to  get  the  will  first. 
Then  towards  sundown  Darrell  came  to  my 
room  —  I  had  gone  to  bed  again.  He  talked 
softly — pretended  he  was  willing  to  help  me,  and 
I  acted  as  if  I  believed,  for  I  wanted  to  fool  him 
till  I  got  the  will.  Then  he  gave  me  the  hash- 
eesh— he  had  taught  me  to  crave  it — and  I  was 
in  great  pain.  Then  I  went  off — off — oh,  I 
don't  know  where ;  and  when  I  woke  up  the 
officers  were  in  the  room — and  that's  all." 

She  stops  abruptly,  and  sits  quite  still. 

Elizabeth  looks  at  Mr.  Carstoe ;  he  compre- 
hends that  she  wishes  him  to  finish  as  quickly  as 
possible  what  remains  to  do.  He  seats  himself 
at  the  table  near  Vaughan,  and  writes  rapidly  for 
a  few  minutes — Vaughan  watching  him  with  his 
insane  eyes. 

"  This  is  what  you  have  to  sign,"  says  Mr. 
Carstoe  ;  "  then,  for  the  sake  of  others — not  for 
yours — this  secret  remains  among  us  here."  He 
reads  aloud : 

"  MR.  CARSTOE, — A  will  of  my  uncle's,  the  late 
Edgar  Vaughan,  has  been  discovered,  which  gives 
the  whole  of  his  fortune  to  my  cousin,  Launce 
Cromlin,  not  even  excepting  the  sum  named  in 
the  codicil.  I  am  ready  at  once  to  restore  to 
my  cousin  the  whole  property,  including  interest 
for  the  time  that  I  have  held  it  in  my  possession." 

"  I  wish — "  begins  Launce,  but  Mr.  Carstoe 
checks  him. 

"I  can  compound  with  my  conscience  no  fur- 
ther than  this,"  says  the  lawyer,  firmly.  "  Dar- 
rell Vaughan,  will  you  sign  this  paper,  or  will 
you  have  the  whole  matter  made  public  from 
this  night  ?" 

Again  that  sound  from  his  lips,  half  moan, 
half  snarl,  like  a  wild  beast  at  bay.  His  glazed 
eyes  wander  to  Elizabeth,  on  to  Cromlin.  Mr. 
Carstoe  holds  the  pen  toward  him — he  pushes  it 
away.  A  look  is  exchanged  between  them,  de- 
fiant on  his  part,  stern  and  determined  on  the 
lawyer's.  He  snatches  the  pen,  and  writes  his 
name. 

"  Curse  you !"  he  cries,  starting  up.  "  Curse 
you  all.  Oh,  if  I—" 

The  words  die  in  a  fresh  groan  ;  he  totters 
back,  slips  from  the  chair  before  Mr.  Carstoe 
can  catch  him,  and  falls  upon  the  floor,  still  and 
white,  with  his  glazed,  senseless  eyes  staring 
blindly  upward. 

Before  Elizabeth  and  Launce  can  reach  Mr. 
Carstoe's  side,  Milady  springs  forward,  pushes 


1U8 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S  HEIR. 


him  off,  and  drops  on  her  knees  by  the  prostrate 
form,  moaning — 

"  I  loved  him ;  nobody  else  ever  did  ;  I  loved 
him !" 

She  believes  that  the  soul  has  gone  out  from 
that  motionless  shape.  Feeling,  womanly  in- 
stincts come  back  in  this  awful  moment,  and 
the  wild  love  of  her  girlhood  conies  too.  Rooted 
out  as  it  has  so  long  seemed  —  murdered,  for- 
gotten— back  it  comes  now. 

"I  loved  him  —  I  always  loved  him!  No- 
body else  ever  did — nobody !  Oh,  my  Darrell, 
my  Darrell!" 

She  sways  forward  till  her  head  rests  on  his 
breast ;  one  convulsive  quiver  shakes  her  limbs, 
then  all  is  still. 

The  first  thought  in  the  minds  of  the  horri- 
fied watchers  is  that  the  betrayer  and  the  be- 
trayed lie  there  dead  together. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

FIVE    YEAES. 

MANY  weeks  passed  before  Marguerite  was  re- 
leased, but  there  were  kind  friends  about  her  to 
the  last.  She  died  holding  Elizabeth's  hand  in 
hers,  able  to  trust  that  He  who  had  pardoned 
the  Magdalene  could  forgive  her. 

"  When  you  called  me  sister,  I  believed  in 
Him,"  she  said  to  Elizabeth ;  and  Elizabeth 
felt  with  tears  of  thankfulness  that  she  could 
never  again  call  her  life  utterly  barren  of  fruit. 

Of  course,  Nathalie  took  to  her  bed  at  the 
first,  and  was  as  helpless  as  possible ;  but  she 
grew  rather  ashamed  of  that,  and  though  a  good 
deal  afraid  of  Elizabeth  and  Mr.  Carstoe,  and 
much  in  awe  of  Marguerite  herself,  she  did  make 
an  effort ;  and  the  lessons  of  those  days  had  an 
effect  even  upon  her  frivolous  nature. 

While  Elizabeth  was  occupied  with  Milady, 
remaining  most  of  the  time  in  Nathalie's  house, 
Launce  Cromlin  assumed  the  care  of  Darrell 
Vaughan.  He  had  been  carried  to  his  own 
home,  senseless,  mindless,  unable  to  move.  He 
would  remain  so,  perhaps,  to  the  end. 

So  Milady  vras  buried,  and  the  new  duty  of 
Elizabeth's  life  began. 

She  did  not  see  Launce  again.  He  sailed  for 
Europe  and  the  East  on  the  day  before  her  re- 
turn to  that  dwelling  whose  threshold  she  had 
thought  never  to  cross  again. 

All  the  business  arrangements  had  been  settled 
by  Mr. Carstoe  so  quietly  that  the  world  had  slight 
opportunity  even  to  weave  a  romance  in  regard 
to  the  newly  discovered  will.  The  vast  fortune 
which  Vaughan  had  accumulated  during  these 
years  of  course  fell  under  Elizabeth's  manage- 
ment. She  could  not  dispose  of  the  principal, 
but  the  whole  income  went  toward  charities — it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  thus  offered  a  little  atone- 
ment for  him. 


Nathalie  was  going  back  to  France — back  to 
Monsieur  La  Tour.  A  spasm  of  repentance  had 
seized  her.  She  rushed  into  it  in  the  same 
headlong  fashion  which  had  always  character- 
ized her  proceedings. 

"I'll  buy  tip  every  book  I  have  written,  and 
burn  the  whole,"  she  said  to  Elizabeth,  and  she 
was  encouraged  to  do  so. 

Perhaps  it  proved  a  shock  to  her  vanity, 
crushed  as  she  was,  to  find  this  "buying 
up  "  a  less  expensive  matter  than  she  expected. 
The  editions  of  her  works  had  been  small,  and 
the  publishers  did  not  place  any  exorbitant 
value  upon  the  stereotyped  plates  in  their  pos- 
session. 

As  the  autumn  came  on  there  was  a  change 
in  Darrell  Vaughan.  He  was  able  to  sit  up — 
to  be  wheeled  into  the  air ;  but  he  would  never 
walk,  and  his  mind  was  hopelessly  wrecked. 
The  physicians  decided  that  the  quiet  of  the 
country  would  be  best  for  him  ;  so  during  the 
golden  October  days  Elizabeth  took  him  away 
to  Tanglewood. 

"  You  used  to  talk  a  great  deal  about  finding 
your  real  work,"  said  Aunt  Janet ;  "  have  you 
found  it  now  ?'.'  . 

"It  was  too  plainly  shown  for  me  to  doubt," 
Elizabeth  answered. 

,  For  many  a  day  there  was  a  cold  wonder  in 
Aunt  Janet's  eyes  as  she  watched  her  niece,  but 
she  softened  gradually  under  the  influence  of 
Elizabeth's  example. 

So  the  months  passed — grew  into  years.  I 
shall  not  tell  you  that  Elizabeth  was  happy  in 
her  sacrifice — that  she  was  even  content.  Often 
the  struggle  was  almost  as  hard  as  in  the  old 
days — but  peace  came. 

She  had  Mr.  Carstoe's  companionship,  and 
Meg  was  like  a  little  sunbeam  to  her.  She  had 
constant  occupation  too,  for  Vaughan  could  not 
bear  her  out  of  his  sight.  During  the  later  time 
occasional  gleams  of  memory  came  back,  but 
none  that  were  dark  or  unpleasant.  The  doc- 
tors thought  it  probable  that  he  would  live  to  old 
age ;  and  it  was  the  feeling  that  she  had  found 
the  work  which  might  last  her  whole  life  that 
helped  Elizabeth  to  grow  patient  and  settled — to 
feel  at  last  a  mournful  but  serene  quiet  in  the 
thought  that  great  changes,  whether  of  joy  or 
sorrow,  were  over  for  her. 

So  three  whole  years  went  by ;  and  when  she 
least  expected  it,  Elizabeth's  long  watch  ended. 
Darrell  Vaughan  roused  suddenly  out  of  the 
stupor  which  usually  oppressed  him.  For  a  day 
or  two  memory  and  bodily  strength  seemed  re- 
turning ;  then  as  suddenly  he  failed,  and  the 
flickering  gleam  of  intelligence  faded.  Mr.  Car- 
stoe and  Elizabeth  were  with  him.  He  died  as 
a  child  might,  vacantly  repeating  the  prayer 
Elizabeth  whispered ;  and  she  could  remember 
that  "Our  Father,"  on  whom  he  called  at  her 
bidding,  is  infinite  in  His  mercy. 


MR.  VAUGHAN'S   HEIR. 


199 


Now  five  whole  years  have  gone,  and  in  the 
bright  autumn  weather  Elizabeth  has  once  more 
sought  the  beautiful  Swiss  valley,  and  for  a  time 
taken  up  her  abode  in  the  quaint  old  dwelling 
where  she  had  spent  some  of  the  pleasantest 
weeks  of  her  girlhood. 

Miss  Janet  was  urgent  that  she  should  have 
at  least  a  twelvemonth's  change  and  relaxation, 
so  Elizabeth  has  come  away.  Meg  is  with  her, 
growing  a  tall,  handsome  girl,  loving,  gentle, 
and  affectionate — a  constant  source  of  comfort 
to  Elizabeth. 

Darrell  Vaughan  had  few  relatives  ;  they  were 
men  upright  and  just  as  Launce  Cromlin.  When 
Vaughan  died,  the  whole  of  his  great  fortune 
was  still  devoted  to  the  uses  to  which  Elizabeth 
consecrated  it  during  the  past  years;  the  heirs 
signified  to  her  through  Mr.  Curstoe  their  desire 
for  this. 

Launce  Cromlin  has  won  great  fame  during 
these  years.  Elizabeth  hears  of  his  success,  and 
is  glad  ;  but  even  since  her  freedom  no  commu- 
nication has  passed  between  them. 

Elizabeth  hears  of  Nathalie  too.  Poor  Natha- 
lie !  she  can  not  help  smiling  when  she  thinks  of 
her.  Excitement  Nathalie  must  have.  While 
Monsieur  La  Tour  lived,  she  found  it  by  worry- 
ing him  with  her  penitence  and  remorse.  Three 
scenes  each  day  and  two  in  the  night  were  the 
least  Nathalie  could  consent  to  make ;  and  Su- 
sanne  grew  so  weary  of  so  much  repentance  and 
goodness  that  she  took  her  money  and  went  to 
live  in  Brittany. 

Nathalie  has  gone  through  many  phases  of  re- 
ligious belief  since  she  was  a  widow.  For  a  while 
she  remained  a  fervent  Papist — on  one  occasion 
undertook  a  pilgrimage  in  the  dress  of  a  Domin- 
ican nun,  with  sandals  on  her  feet,  and  looked  in 
the  newspapers  to  be  horrified  by  a  glowing  ac- 
count of  her  adventures,  and  wept  bitterly  when 
she  found  none.  She  wearied  of  Papacy  after 
that,  gave  up  all  idea  of  entering  a  convent,  fell 
in  with  some  new  sects,  and  for  a  season  was  a 
prophet  and  at  the  head  of  a  society  where  all  j 
the  members  worked  with  their  hands,  and  fed  \ 
on  vegetables,  and  saw  visions,  and  were  gener- 
ally very  uncomfortable.  Finally,  Nathalie  had 
a  vision  which  warned  her  to  set  out  for  Jerusa- 
lem to  convert  Jews  and  Moslems.  On  the  road 
she  encountered  some  dignitaries  of  the  Greek 
Church,  and  became  a  proselyte  at  once,  and,  not 
venturing  longer  to  believe  in  visions,  relinquish- 
ed her  work  of  conversion.  After  that,  she 
thought  of  becoming  a  missionary  to  some  Can- 
nibal island,  but  recollected  the  long  sea-voyage 
necessary  to  reach  such  a  spot,  and  decided  she 
was  not  really  "called." 


About  the  time  of  Darrell  Vaughan's  death 
Elizabeth  heard  from  her  in  Geneva ;  she  was 
living  in  that  dull  town,  and  had  become  a  Cal- 
vinist.  She  sent  Elizabeth  several  brimstone 
tracts  and  threatening  Sunday-school  books  of 
her  own  composition.  She  added  warning  let- 
ters, in  which  she  urged  Elizabeth  to  renounce 
her  errors  of  faith,  and  follow  in  Calvin's  foot- 
steps, if  she  would  save  her  soul  alive. 

Elizabeth  has  lately  seen  her — she  stopped  at 
Geneva  on  her  way  to  Clarens.  Nathalie  has 
married  a  Geneva  preacher,  one  Monsieur  Fautal 
— a  little,  bony  man,  the  ugliest  of  his  race,  but 
an  earnest  and  sincere  one.  Nathalie  wears 
striped  dresses  of  coarse  worsted,  has  cut  her 
hair  short,  is  prematurely  thin  and  old.  She 
hates  the  change,  and  cries  over  the  loss  of  her 
beauty,  and  is  terrified  at  her  own  regret.  Her 
faith  is  as  full  of  brimstone  as  her  tracts,  and  she 
hates  that  too,  yet  is  afraid  that,  in  spite  of  her 
efforts,  her  hard  work,  she  is  among  the  luckless 
wretches  "fore-ordained  to  damnation,  "and  some- 
times has  hysterics  in  the  midst  of  the  prayer- 
meetings.  But  Monsieur  Fautal  is  very  patient 
with  her,  and  she  has  great  influence  as  the  min- 
ister's wife  in  her  little  circle.  She  is  always  try- 
ing to  drag  sinners  into  the  fold — upon  one  oc- 
casion absolutely  attacking  the  Roman  Catholic 
bishop  on  the  steps  of  his  own  chapel.  Poor 
Nathalie!  Elizabeth  smiles  and  sighs  as  she 
thinks  of  her,  but  hopes  the  restless  soul  may  at 
last  reach  the  dawn — at  least  she  wants  to  do 
right. 

So  in  the  twilight  of  an  October  evening  Eliz- 
abeth sits  under  the  great  willow  by  the  lake 
shore,  and  looks  out  at  the  mountains,  still  glo- 
rious with  heavenly  light.  Meg,  seated  in  a  win- 
dow of  the  villa,  sings  softly  as  she  dreams  the 
dreams  of  budding  girlhood,  and  her  voice  reach- 
es Elizabeth,  and  mingles  pleasantly  with  her 
meditations. 

She  is  thinking  of  the  past,  as  she  may  do  now 
— thinking  a  little,  too,  of  the  future,  but  trying 
to  avoid  fancies  and  hopes — content  to  leave  it 
all  in  God's  hands. 

The  twilight  deepens  ;  the  last  glow  fades  from 
the  mountain-tops.  The  waters  ripple  past,  shad- 
owy and  dark,  till  on  a  sudden  the  moon  comes 
up,  and  tinges  their  sweep  with  her  yellow  splen- 
dor. Meg  has  ceased  to  sing ;  the  low  breeze 
has  died ;  the  very  waves  are  still.  Elizabeth 
thinks  the  whole  scene  a  type  of  the  great  silence 
and  repose  which  have  come  into  her  life ;  but 
she  will  not  be  saddened  or  impatient.  A  step 
sounds  on  the  greensward — a  voice  calls  her 
name.  She  looks  up — Launce  Cromlin  is  beside 
her. 


THE   END. 


' 


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A     000040103     4 


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